Impossibilities
by Exceeds Expectations
Summary: When it comes to love, nothing is impossible. Drabble collection for HedwigBlack's Slash/Femmslash Boot Camp Challenge. From the fanon /WolfStar, Drarry, Deamus/ to the ridiculously unheard of /RitaHermione, LunaProfSinstra/, they're all here.
1. Question - RegulusGideon

**A/N:** Hello, my lovelies. This will be a 50 chapter long drabble series comprised entirely of slash and femslash pairings, for HedwigBlack's _Slash/Femmslash Boot Camp Challenge. _

So you have been warned: boys who like boys and girls who don't.

**Prompt: **4. Question

**Pairing: **Regulus Black/Gideon Prewett (Credit for this pairing to the lovely Mew and Mor!)

* * *

Regulus is cracking. He knows it, he feels it. There's two sides of him, pushing and pulling and falling and flying and he's being ripped in two, ten, a million pieces.

And each piece has got Gideon Prewett scrawled across it.

* * *

They meet in the library on cold nights.

Gideon wears his long hair tied back, but Regulus has his scraping the base of his neck to stave off the cold. Gideon is in his pyjamas, because it's late, but Regulus wears his perfectly presentable uniform, tie and all. Gideon is smiling, but Regulus is not.

It comes to him, burning the tip of his tongue, and before he can stop himself, Regulus speaks.

"What if things were different?" he asks.

Gideon looks at him with sharp and curious eyes, and Regulus blushes under his gaze.

"Then maybe I could love you without feeling guilty," he says, as if it were all that simple.

Gideon closes his book over with a small smile.

"But I do, you know. Love you," he says, and reaches for Regulus' hand.

Regulus lets Gideon run his thumb along the soft pad of his palm, and all the while he wonders how to say it back.

"Gideon. I'd give it up for you. If I could," he promises, but he pulls his hand from Gideon's and closes it tightly around his own forearm.

"I know. Goodbye, Regulus."

And that is the last time that Gideon sees Regulus alive.

* * *

This is because Regulus trips and falls and cracks, and he chokes on the secrets he's found (and maybe also the water that fills his lungs). He thinks that maybe he's brave enough for this.

He finds a locket, leaves a locket, and drowns.

In his mind he thinks only that it was all worth it, that Gideon will be that much safer.

(And maybe even a little proud.)

_What if I was different, Gideon?_

And then he dies the hero that he never thought he could be.


	2. Please - PercyOliver

**A/N:** This was fun to write! Used additional prompt "burgundy" from Lady Phoenix Fire Rose's Boot Camp 1 Hour Challenge thingy.

**Prompt:** 1. Please

**Pairing:** Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood

* * *

He's like your sweet, sweet addiction, a drug you simply cannot refuse.

You remember that first hit; 1994.

He had just won the Quidditch Cup and the whole of Gryffindor poured into the common room, eyes ablaze, cheers echoing through the tower. You looked at his smile, bigger than you've ever seen it, and watched him caress the edge of his coveted cup with all the tenderness of a lover.

The party had started before the last Gryffindor had even walked through the portrait hole. You weren't one for parties, though, and so you vowed to find Oliver, possibly the Chasers, and offer your congratulations, before retiring to bed. You would see Harry and the twins tomorrow. Besides, you had a novel on International Muggle Relations that was practically calling you up the stairs.

You found Oliver chatting to a few sixth year girls with a cheeky smile, his stance oozing confidence.

You had congratulated him between chuckles and he'd turned those bright eyes on you.

"What're you laughing at, eh, Perce? WE WON!" he'd roared in your face. "C'mon, come with me. Somebody get this man a drink!"

And before you knew it, Oliver had a casual arm around your shoulder and you both had glasses filled with a rich, sticky liquid that slid down your throat like smooth honey and made your head buzz pleasantly. You sipped your drink, watching the deep burgundy liquid slosh back on forth, slowly, sluggishly, in your glass. Your fingers held the glass maybe a little too tight, and you couldn't help but wonder why Oliver hadn't quite let you go.

"Perce," he slurred, and you had marvelled at his rapid inebriation only to find your chuckles seemed far away, and your tongue felt oddly dry and prickly. So you took another sip.

"Percy, Percy, Percy," he recited, saying your name with a gentle reverence that sounded for all the world like a poem, or a perhaps song. You felt your ears burn. "Please?"

"Please what?" you said. And, okay, maybe you were a little bit tipsy, but Oliver was flat-out drunk, and you wondered how many glasses of this burgundy mystery he had downed before you found him.

"Percy, just...please?" he said, his voice low and desperate. "Please, please, please..."

His eyes fell closed slowly but the whispers still came, _please please please, _and you knew it was useless to ask again. You drained the last of the dark liquid and set your glass down at your feet with a sigh.

"C'mon, Wood. Time for bed," you managed to mumble, though the words bled together more than you would have liked. You stood quickly and felt Oliver's arm drop from you like a dead weight.

You grabbed him firmly by the wrist and muttered reassurances, _come on, Oliver, up you get, _that may have come out as slurs and mumbles, but he knew what you meant. Slow and clumsy, he got to his feet, and you slung his arm back around your shoulder, smiling at the familiar warmth.

"Big steps now," you warned, and half-held, half-dragged him to the staircase. "Oliver. Stairs."

You watched him extend his leg blindly and search for the first step. A little shove forward and he found it. Up and up and up, you pushed him, hands firmly on his hips, watching as his feet awkwardly shuffled around for the way forward.

Finally, you reached your dormitory, and flung the door open. The bang was louder than your addled brain expected. But Oliver was suddenly at home, suddenly recognised his surroundings.

"Percy, Percy, Percy," he muttered as he propelled himself forward on unsteady legs. You stood in the doorway and watched him flop onto the nearest bed – your bed – and continue his mutterings into the soft pillow.

You walked to the bed and plopped yourself next to Oliver's prone form.

"Wood. Out of my bed."

"Percy?" he asked blearily. "Your bed?"

"Yes, my bed. Go. Shoo!"

"Percy..." he said. "Please..."

"Please what, Oliver? Stop bloody saying that."

"Percy..."

"Oliver, I will push you to the floor," you threatened, though you were unsure where your arms were, or whether or not you could actually use them.

And then he propped himself up on his elbows, looking at you curiously, an eyebrow cocked.

"You wouldn't, Percy. You wouldn't. But please," he said, and he dropped his head and kissed you right on the mouth.

At first, you didn't know how to react. But the burgundy blood in your veins told you to kiss him back, and so you did. Your lips danced and you swallowed each other's moans and sighs, and when you pulled away first, Oliver whispered, "Thank you," into your ear.

And you suddenly understood.

Minutes later you fell back into his open mouth and spent the night lying with Oliver above you, kissing bruises onto each other's skin and smiles onto your lips.

And that was the first hit.

But not the last.

It took that one night, and you were hooked.

For that last week of school, you forget who you are and who you're supposed to be. You've a week until your NEWTS and you spend it running your hands through Oliver's hair and entwining your hands in his. You silently thank Merlin that you've been studying since Christmas, and laugh when Oliver tells you you're the reason he's going to fail.

"If you've left it this late to start studying, I'm not your reason for failing," you say as you run your thumb along his jaw line.

And even when you leave school (both having passed your NEWTS wonderfully, regardless of what it was you were studying the night before) you meet regularly for a "catch-up". There's not much to catch up on when you see each other two, three, four times a week, but no one asks any questions and so you're happy.

And when you sip that sweet, honeyed liquid from a dirty glass in the corner of the Hog's Head, all it takes is a _please_ in your ear and you've grabbed Oliver by the wrist and apparated back to his flat.

Because you're an addict, and, yet, neither of you seem to care.


	3. Key - DeanSeamus

**A/N: **I have a huge thing for Artist!Dean! Requests welcome :)

**Prompt:** 40. Key

**Pairing: **Dean/Seamus

* * *

The first time Dean paints a self-portrait, Seamus tells him it's wrong.

"It doesn't make any sense, mate. Why is this red? Where is the green coming from? What's that line supposed to be?"

Dean tells him politely to mind his own bloody business. The colours are right, he knows it. Because he feels like a slope of blues and greens, with a blackened ribcage and a bright, cherried smile. He feels like a green-veined monster, bearing wings of gold and a mind of silver. And he paints with his heart, not with his head.

Seamus just doesn't get it though. He sees a human form lost in so many colours, drowned in things that don't exist and lines that don't belong. He still doesn't get it even after Dean explains.

"The key is to feel it, not to see it," he says. Seamus scoffs and still can't grasp it.

In fact, it takes him six years to get it, and by then Dean's already achieved semi-fame in a world he doesn't belong in, and Seamus hasn't seen him for a long time.

He sees that first self-portrait once again, in a newspaper. And he just gets it. Just like that.

Dean wasn't trying to paint himself photo-realistically. He was trying to tell a story. _His _story. And when Seamus looks at that first portrait, it tells him more about his old best friend than he ever thought he'd know. Seamus can see, no, not see, _feel _Dean's hopes and fears and dreams echoing around the stark white page and falling into the nothingness. He can feel Dean's worries sloped on scattered lines and sense Dean's confusion in that haze of colour, and somewhere along the way, finding secrets hidden behind quill scratches and ink splotches, Seamus realises he misses him.

So he sends Dean a letter and tells him he's sorry and that he was right and did he mention it (he) was beautiful? And when Dean replies he feels his heart jump into his throat as he traces the sharp angles and lines scratched onto the parchment. They make up Seamus' face.

"From memory," he's written.

And Seamus thinks he might be in love.


	4. Agreement - RemusRegulus

**Prompt: **26. Agreement

**Pairing: **Regulus/Remus

* * *

"He doesn't want you."

Regulus' breath is hot and damp on Remus' skin and with it he feels the dull blush of shame spread across his cheeks. Remus closes his eyes and prays that the darkness there swallows him, but he knows Regulus is going nowhere.

"He doesn't love you."

Remus swallows and it feels as if his throat is made of thorns, as if he is pricking his insides with every gulp. His eyes are beginning to sting and he does his best to hold back tears as Regulus' fingers trace his spine through his robes.

"He doesn't even look at you, Remus," he whispers. "I do."

Remus opens his amber eyes and stares, his eyes strangely bright. No tears, he thinks. Not now.

"I look at you. I notice you. I see you, Remus," says Regulus, punctuating each sentence with a kiss to Remus' jaw.

"Kiss me."

And Remus doesn't know what to do because Regulus is right and everything he has said is painfully true, and Remus can feel himself blushing in agreement, shame and embarrassment burning in the base of his stomach. But under that, right there, coiling and twisting beneath, what is that? Is that...desire?

He gives in, and Remus finds Regulus' lips, kissing him with everything he wishes Sirius would take. Regulus growls into his mouth, hands rough and claiming on Remus' hips, on his back, on his chest. He is tearing carelessly at Remus' clothes, slipping his hand under the dense fabric and Remus concedes, whimpering in defeated acceptance.

Regulus' hand is cold and his touch is so foreign, but Remus finds himself panting, arching his hips forward into Regulus' hand. He keeps his gaze locked with Regulus' steely grey eyes and lets the fire consume him. His hips are convulsing and his back is arching and there are fireworks in his vision, framing those grey eyes, but it's Sirius' name on his lips when Remus comes.

And Regulus tenses, pulls his hand from Remus' underwear with a snap and recoils.

"Regulus, I'm s-," he tries.

But Regulus is already gone.


	5. Scar - HarryDraco

**A/N:** I think I'm addicted to these drabbles. Reviews appreciated and requests welcome!

**Prompt:** 9. Scar

**Pairing:** Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy

* * *

Your history is written not in the stars, but in the scars.

Your body is crisscrossed with slices and slashes from back when you were both blinded by prejudice and expectations, and you use them to remind each other that you've made it this far.

You lie next to Harry at night and you feel his green eyes chasing the silver-bright lines across your chest.

"I hate myself for what I did to you," he whispers, and you look him in the eye and shake your head. You see how his face has blanched and his lips are thin and pale. It's sort of nice when he talks like this, when he opens his mouth and lets the real Harry fall out, the Harry with the regrets and the worries and not the war-hardened hero, but it brings back memories you'd rather forget.

"I've done worse to you."

And it's true. You watched the world beat him down and laughed triumphantly. Surely that's just as bad?

"I almost killed you, Draco. You could have _died_."

"And I never stopped you from being killed. You _did _die. While I ran around and made sure I was going to be safe. You were a hero and I was a coward. Bad versus good. You did the right thing," you say, as you always do when the memory of your scarlet blood floods his mind.

"Bad versus good? You were never bad, Draco. You were foolish. You were naïve. You were never _bad_."

You say, "Thank you," because there's no other way that Harry will let you respond.

You kiss his forehead and then his lips, taking care to wipe all thoughts of that lightning bolt scar from your mind simply because dwelling on it reminds you who you used to be.

"Goodnight, Malfoy," he mumbles to your shoulder.

"Goodnight, Potter," you smile.

And as you drift off to sleep, you are acutely aware of his fingers caressing your old scars and his warm breath on your skin.

That night, you dream that Harry can kiss the scars away, and you wake in the morning with your arms around him and the thought that, maybe, he can.


	6. Comfort - FleurTonks

**Prompt:** 46. Comfort

**Pairing:** Nymphadora Tonks/Fleur Weasley

* * *

You are the wives of the wolf boys and that binds you together more than it should.

You love your husband, and she hers, but you're the only two who know the feeling of being completely, hopelessly in love with someone who isn't quite as perfect as you wish they were.

Her husband crumples and folds and changes and – _once a month, Dora, just once a month_, you whisper – becomes a monster.

Your husband's face is simply scarred, but he changes, too. His eyes darken, his voice deepens, he growls at you, _snap_, and he pushes and shoves you and – _once a month, Fleur, just once a month,_ she whispers – he terrifies you.

And it's her arms you find yourself in.

It's her you whisper to, her you whose robes you soak with your tears and only her who understands you. She's better than you at holding in the tears, holing up the fears, but you can see it in her eyes on those moonlight nights; _my husband is a monster._

She blinks and it's gone.

And no matter how much you reassure yourself that you love Bill, (and you _do_) there is something that keeps you crawling into Tonks' arms when the moon glows, deathly bright and oh so full.

Because Tonks' understands, more than you ever could, what it is to be in such a uniquely horrifying situation.

And maybe that's why you let her kiss your tears away.


	7. Evening - ProfSinstraLuna

**A/N:** Okay, okay, so I even I have to admit this is a weird one. Just run with it.

**Prompt:** 33. Evening

**Pairing: **Luna/Professor Sinistra

* * *

She's in your fourth year Astronomy class and the first thing you notice about her is the stars that hide in her eyes. She seems dreamy and far away and it's crosses your mind once or twice that she could live among the stars.

She's got that burn, that silver shine.

She calls you one evening after class.

"_Just a quick question,_" she says, but it's not quick, not quick at all, and somehow you find yourself explaining things to her long after the sky has begun to lighten, and the stars you're pointing at begin to fade, and the world comes to life around you.

You find yourself explaining things she didn't ask about, or things you don't even know that much about yourself, really, just because you like how interested and alert she looks when you talk. Her eyes are wide and she nods along to your words, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

And right there, up in the Astronomy tower, with the stars waning and the sun spilling across the clouds, you kiss her. She smiles against your lips.

And, suddenly, the sky doesn't even matter anymore

(The dying stars are the only witness to your crime and you wouldn't change a thing.

Because you've always burned for starshine, and Luna's the brightest thing you've found this close to home.)


	8. Portrait - DominiqueOC

**A/N:** I've just realised that a fair few things I write have something to do with art. I've written Scorpius, Dean, Dom and Lucy as artists. Though I don't think I've published the Lucy one..._yet_. I don't even like paint. (INK RULES, WOO).

Also, I will gladly take** femslash requests**. There aren't enough females in this series, I swear. No wonder JK made 80% of the Next Gen female.

**Prompt:** 11. Portrait

**Pairing:** Dominique Weasley/Aoife Finnigan _(pronounced Eee-fah, for all you non-Irish-heads out there!)_

* * *

Dominique couldn't understand when Aoife would fling paint at the canvas with jerky, random hand movements and Aoife couldn't understand why Dominique would use a ruler and a compass to map out lines and shapes with a pencil before she'd even opened a paint tube.

_"You're not making art_," Aoife would say. "_That's not painting."_

"_You're not making art_," Dominique would say. "_That's not painting"._

But there they'd stand, side by side, as Aoife used her palms to swirl sky blue paint through purple and yellow streaks on a pale green canvas and Dom used a set square to measure the precise angle of Aoife's elbow as she worked.

And in the silence they fall in love, both with paint and with each other.

When Dom would ask, "_What are you painting?"_ Aoife would say, "_You_," even though what she was painting was more the idea of Dominique than Dominique herself. And when Aoife would ask, Dominique would say, _"I'm not sure," _even though she was staring at perfect replicas of the bright blue eyes that questioned her.

"_But it doesn't matter,_" Dom would whisper, and they'd throw fully loaded paintbrushes on the once-pristine floor and leave hasty rainbow footprints from the easels to the bed.

Maybe they never got it perfect and maybe they never really understood each other, but they painted and kissed, and painted between kisses, and they covered their walls in portraits that never quite said what they were trying to say.

And that's the thing about painting; you paint what you feel and see what you see, and in the end you label it a beautiful disaster.

But you just keep on trying.


	9. Trouble - RemusSirius

**A/N: **Okay, okay, so the next few were supposed to be femslash. Shh. Look, puppies!

**Prompt: **28. Trouble

**Pairing: **Remus Lupin/Sirius Black (HOW HAVE I NOT WRITTEN YOU TWO YET?)

* * *

_That boy is trouble._

This is how the whispers go. He is small and thin and something about him reminds you of tall grass and early mornings. He has scars and insecurity across his young face and he hides his body behind the scarlet curtains as he gets ready for bed.

You still watch. The candle beside his bed lights that curtain up, a bright and perfect circle, and you watch his silhouette peel off those dark and heavy robes and, for an instant, you can imagine the scars that run along his body like a roadmap of pain, like a way to trace back the horrors of his life.

And you want to. You want to trace it back to the beginning and find out why why why. You want to run your fingers along the scars you can only imagine and ask him about each one and listen and tell him it's okay.

_That boy is trouble._

But you can't, can you?

Because he is the boy who puts up barriers, who pulls tight the curtains and feigns indifference or sleep, and you are the boy who is maybe a bit too immature and a bit too alive, and trying to force him to be happy isn't working so well.

So you sit and you watch and you notice. You see when he is tired and weary, with a fatigue in his eyes that little boys shouldn't yet know. You notice when he is gone for the night, sometimes for days, and how it is always a mumbled excuse or a bare-faced lie that passes his lips before he leaves. You see how he comes back with fresh scars and new cuts and bruises and scrapes, and you see how he sometimes looks like he wants to die.

_That boy is trouble._

No. No, that boy is _in_ trouble, and you feel like you're the only one who can see that.

They look at his scars and his cold exterior, his reserved ways and his oh so quiet words and they think he's got a secret.

But you look at his face. You see sort-of-tanned skin under those silver stripes, and you see intelligent eyes that could hold more mischief than they already do if only he'd let you in. And you see that smile, those pointed teeth that glint in the light and remind you that everyone deserves happiness.

And maybe he does have a secret, but don't we all?

_That boy is trouble, _they say.

_No, no, that boy is my friend, _you respond (even though he doesn't want you to) and grab him by the wrist and stalk away.

* * *

_This boy is trouble._

That's how your mind tells you to stay away when you're a few years older and a few kisses past utterly lost.

He presses his body close to yours and winds his fingers through your hair and you sigh and moan and groan and think _trouble_ over and over.

_This boy is trouble._

No, this boy is perfect and amazing and everything to you and he most certainly is not trouble.

And you tell him that as you walk your hand along the roadmaps of his chest, those scars shining just as you thought they might. You tell him that he's not trouble and that you're sorry people ever thought he was because he's too sweet, too gentle to be trouble. You're sorry for the scars and the hostility and the people who flinch away from his touch and the people who stare and the _rumours_, because he's everything, he's _anything,_ but trouble.

_But am I worth the trouble? _

He says it with a smile but you can hear the worry and the desperate need to know that slips past his words and tries to worm its way into your heart.

And you've run out of words to say you love him, so you just kiss him quiet and hope he understands.

* * *

_This boy is trouble._

_No, no, this boy is mine._


	10. Watch - RitaHermione

**A/N:** Okay, so this one has been a long time coming. A _long _time. Written for ReillyJade's Unlikely Hermione Pairing Challenge, and inspired into completion by the wonderful Shira Lansys! If it weren't for Shira, I would not be able to _drabble_. So go say_ thank you, Shira_! Additional prompt provided by Shira: _if only._

**Prompt:** 42. Watch

**Pairing: **Rita Skeeter/Hermione Granger

* * *

She catches you.

Catches you in your own sticky web of lies, slams a glass jar down over your little insect body, and has you trapped.

You never would have thought it of her, this little girl with the bushy hair and the skin as pale as the pages she so loves. She looks young, naïve, and she's fighting on the good side, but she must be twisted in some sort of way because she throws some leaves on top of you, seals the jar, and leaves it next to her bed.

And you are stuck.

(Watching.)

* * *

She picks up the jar sometimes, peering in at you with her big, dark eyes with the spider-leg lashes and the glint of sadistic amusement. She watches you watch her.

And in those moment there is an unspoken thought that slides down the legs of her spider-lashes and curls itself around your antennae:

She could kill you.

She could hex this jar and watch the sunlight catch the specks of glass that fly like glitter when it shatters. She could laugh as you hit the ground, trying to remember how to move, how to change, how to _run. _She could raise her skinny leg and with a _crunch! _she could crush you.

But, instead, she just watches you.

And just you sit there, trying to learn more and more about the girl with the sarcastic smile and the triumph in her voice. She is nothing like you expected and the more you watch, the more you can't help but love her and hate her at the same time.

Because she's a little too bitter to be made up of those sweet smiles she flaunts, and when you spend your days trading secrets behind hands and enchanted quills, a girl who can lie to the world as readily as this one...she's something special.

* * *

It hits you one day that she keeps you here because she hates you. You are the enemy here. For a fleeting moment, you were the bane of her existence. To her, you are the woman who ruined everything.

And that's all you'll ever be.

And, maybe, if you had met a different way... If you were younger, or she older... If you were not as vindictive, as spiteful, if you were _good enough_...

Alone in the jar, you find yourself thinking _if only_, imagining the different ways you could have met her.

(And forgetting the way you did).


	11. Gift - PansyLuna

**A/N:** This is for tmmdeathwishraven, who requested LunaPansy and provided the prompt flowers. Hope you like it!

**Prompt:** 10. Gift

**Pairing:** Luna Lovegood/Pansy Parkinson

* * *

She is a hero.

What are you? You are a coward, a Potter-sacrificing, self-saving coward, and by all rights, she should hate you.

But she doesn't.

Because Luna is not a creature of hate. She's an anomaly, that girl, she's so very different to you that she reminds you of yourself, which doesn't make any sense at all, but it's Luna and things shouldn't have to make sense around her.

Your relationship begins in a graveyard.

It starts with a curt nod, or a mumbled, "Hello," as you pass her. You amble through the freshly dug graves with flowers in your hands and you lay them at the mound of dirt that covers your father's cold body. You bow your head and you whisper to the earth and, from the corner of your eye, you see her watch you.

She says, "How are you?" one day as you're leaving, and you tell her, in no uncertain terms, that you're pretty much fucked because no one wants to associate with Slytherins these days, much less _you. _She nods as if she gets it, though she couldn't possibly because she's _Luna_, she's a damn Ravenclaw and she's _mental_ but people _love _her.

"You wouldn't understand," you hiss.

"Of course not," she says with a sleepy smile. "Everyone has always been lovely to me."

And she's not one for sarcasm, so it takes you a second to remember the jeers of _Loony_ and the shoes strung up on chandeliers in the Great Hall and the whispers and titters when she walked by.

So you just say, "Oh," and she smiles even bigger.

"You know, if you smile, people will think that what they say doesn't matter," she whispers conspiratorially. "And if you smile with the right people, you'll soon realise that what they say _doesn't _matter."

And she leaves, all flowing dirty blonde hair and flowery robes, and you're left staring at her swaying hips as they carry her away.

* * *

One day, you visit the graveyard once again to find your father's grave already adorned with fresh flowers. They sit there, colourful and intrusive, strange and foreign among the darkness that is your father's grave. Your own flowers, pale, pale, lilies, they are nothing now.

_Pansies_.

You bend down, clean knees burrowing into the dirt, and grasp them in your hands. Your lilies are cast aside unceremoniously.

Clumsy fingers prod and stroke and poke at the pansies, and you don't know what you're looking for until you find it. A small, square card with sloping, scratchy handwriting, tucked in behind the oranges and yellows and pinks.

_Pansy, _she's written,

_You can always count on pansies to brighten up a place, can't you? Consider them a gift. I think your father would love them._

_Luna_

You feel the corners of your lips tug into a smile and tears spring to your eyes. These flowers, they might well be the best gift you've ever been given.

Your head snaps up, looking towards the gravestone that she always stands at. She's not there, and the stone looks bare without her arms slung across it as she kisses it hello. For the first time, you find yourself wondering who lies beneath Luna's stone, who Luna drags herself through this dark and dreary hell for.

When you rest your lilies across the base of the grave, you read the words _Iliana Lovegood _and see _Loving mother_ carved beneath and suddenly there's more to Luna than you thought.

But you look at the grave; the grass is green and bright and holds the morning dew like shining diamonds. Your lilies look brighter here, surrounded by such a vivacious green, than on your father's grave. How long has Luna lived without her mother?

Longer than you've been fatherless, at any rate.

You walk away through the damp grass and wonder how you've never noticed the loss of a parent that surely pools in her eyes, as it does your own.

And maybe you just haven't been looking close enough.

* * *

A few days later, you return to your father's grave to a different type of intrusion.

Luna sits to the side of the mound of soil, pulling loose the blades of grass in front of her and humming quietly.

"What are you doing here, Lovegood?" you ask harshly, because you're confused and worried and maybe a bit scared.

"Pansy!" she says with a smile, "Come here, sit down."

She pats the grass beside her and you smirk, ready to let the snide remark ("_These robes and wet grass?"_) slip from your lips, but then you remember.

_Iliana Lovegood._

You sit.

There is a silence filled only by the tearing sound that the grass makes as Luna pulls it up in tiny clumps, and you watch her fingers work in a steady rhythm, wondering again how long she's spent in this graveyard before you turned up.

"Do you want to talk about him?" she asks without looking up.

"No."

"Okay."

And her fingers never halt, never falter, pulling at that grass and shredding it to pieces. You fold your arms high on your chest, as if covering your heart will make speaking easier.

"He was an idiot," you begin, and only then do her hands slow to a stop. "He followed the Dark Lord and he really thought they'd win. But, sometimes, I did, too."

"So did I."

"Yeah, well, they didn't. And I don't think it matters anymore, because he's the only reason I stuck with that side. He chose for me."

"And if you had been given the choice?"

You look at her, searching her eyes for the judgement, the condemnation you would find in anybody else.

"I'd go wherever he did."

You don't expect her to smile, but she does.

"What?" you ask, perhaps slightly aggressively.

"You love him," she says simply. And then she reaches for your hand and wraps her fingers around yours, and you stare blankly at her fingertips, tinged green from the grass, against your pale skin.

"Tell me about him," she says. "The real him."

You blink.

"He – he loved Christmas more than anything," you say. You're not sure where the words are coming from but it feels _good_, so you let them come, "I remember one year, when he bought me a toy broom but I was too afraid to try it so he promised he'd show me how. He got on it and he – he broke it in two, right down the middle, and I should've been angry but I laughed and laughed and..."

You sit there, with Luna Lovegood's hand in yours, and you let your eyes chase the sloping swirl of your father's name as you tell her all about him, everything, every memory that is burnt into the back of your eyelids and every secret that he made you keep, because saying the words makes it all a little more real, makes _him _a little more real, and this is Luna's way of helping you keep him alive.

When the words stop, you wipe tears from your cheeks with shaking hands and lean over to kiss her cheek.

"Thank you," you whisper.

"You're welcome," she says, and turns to catch your lips with hers.

* * *

She is a hero, and you...you are a coward.

But she understands you most even when you think she doesn't, and she listens with an intensity that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up in the morning breeze.

She kisses you softly when you need her, and roughly when you _need_ her, and you don't know how you ever managed without her. She gives you pansies when you're sad and surprises you with picnics when you're not, and she pulls you back to Earth slowly but surely.

She should hate you, but she doesn't.

And, really, she's the best gift you've ever been given.


	12. Guilty - RegulusGideon

**A/N:** I couldn't resist doing these two again. Oh, how I love the tragedy of the ship that is Regidion! Written for Men's Boxing in the Hogwarts Games.

**Prompt:** 20. Guilty

**Pairing:** Regulus Black/Gideon Prewett

* * *

This is wrong.

Boys aren't supposed to want this. _You're_ not supposed to want this, want _him._

(Purebloods, Blacks, _Slytherins_ aren't supposed to want him. Silly Regulus, you're all of those things.

Act like it.)

You're not supposed to lie beside him and want nothing more than to bundle him in your arms and just stay there, still, until you feel your hearts synchronise and your breathing slow.

You're not supposed to watch the flutter of his fair eyelashes on his cheek and think about how beautiful he is, how perfect, all blue-eyed beauty and fire-red hair.

You're not supposed to sit up, slip an arm around his waist and caress the skin of his stomach as your lips find his.

You're not supposed to love him like this.

(You're not supposed to love a Gryffindor, no, no, anyone but a _Gryffindor_.

Anyone but a Prewett.

Anyone but _him._)

But then there's the unequivocal, undeniable, utterly unquestionable fact that you _do_.

You love him.

So you kiss him anyway and only cry when your curtains are drawn and the lights are out and you're alone. Because you love him and you _have_ him, even if only behind closed doors, but you can't stay with him and your future, your destiny, your _parents _are strangling all your hope and _Gideon, Gideon, Gideon._

The guilt creeps in when you lie awake, running over your skin in sickening waves, and your stomach drops and twists and, _oh, Gideon._

Your hand holds tight your left forearm, fingernails pressing in, digging into your flesh, so that you can distract yourself from the burning. The burn of betrayal, of weakness, of _guilt_.

Blood dribbles down your wrist in stilted droplets, bright against your skin.

You're not supposed to do this.

But you need to.

Because maybe, one day, you'll be strong enough to hold him, to tell him comforting lies, and carry his weary, wary heart in the palm of your hands until the end of time.

(And, maybe, just maybe, you'll love him enough to not care who sees_._)


	13. Sing - RemusSirius

**A/N: **This is a bit odd for me. I haven't written in first person in _years, _and Remus gets a little _too_ lovey-dovey in this. I wanted to make is longer, a series of letters, but I don't have the time right now so it must stand alone! Written for OnTheSideOfTheAngel's My Future Self Competition.

**Prompt: **13. Sing

**Pairing: **Remus Lupin/Sirius Black

* * *

**1976  
**  
Dear Future Me,

So you're older and wiser and I feel like a lost little boy. I need to write to someone for advice, or maybe just to vent, but there's no one I deem trustworthy enough for this. You know though. Of course you know.

You know that I'm trying so hard to just work, to just get through school with the best marks I can. But, it's not working, Future Me, it's not working because I'm getting too bloody distracted. I'm filling the margins with doodles and haikus that have his name hidden in so many different places, if only you look hard enough.

He is in everything I do.

Sirius...

Sirius Sirius Sirius.

He makes me feel like writing broken poetry, or singing a song with lyrics that my lips don't yet know, the lyrics of how he tastes in the night and how he sounds when he promises forever.

Do you have him, Future Me? If you do, please let me know. And you don't, please tell me you do so that I can keep hoping.

Because he's driven me mad, absolutely mad, and the words are falling from my quill faster than anything's ever fallen from my lips because writing is easier, right?

So I'm going to tell you how I feel and hopefully you'll remember and smile, or remember and sigh, or, better yet, you'll call him over and wave this yellowed paper in his face and let him read a love letter from your sixteen year old self and then you will remember and kiss him.

So. Here it is:

I think I'm the only one who lets him play them like a broken violin, and I am certainly the only one who lets him sing them like a ballad that never was quite finished.

I am not a music lover.

But I am falling out of staves and hanging from twisted treble clefs that somehow swing from his ear like beautiful, musical earrings and I would promise him a thousand, no, a million poems if he said _I love you_ the way he says _hello_.

But he doesn't, and so I stand up straight and I spit notes like I am his own personal orchestra and I wrote this song for him (and only him) when he wasn't even listening, when he wouldn't sing along and so I played it to his back and hoped his smile would boomerang back and hit me right in the bow.

And maybe I'm not the only one who spills music onto his sheets or the only one who fills his ears with well-meaning nonsense, but I am the only one who writes him rambling poetry and imagines how he'd cringe away at all the cheesy lines because _I love you _has never been his style.

(But I write them anyway because at least then I can say I'm the only one who does and, one day, when I force an_ I love you _from between his shaking lips, I will sing him a poem and pretend it's the violin solo he asked for back when his touches were chaste and his hands were cold.

And none of it will matter because I'll have already gotten those three little words and tucked them into my teeth so I could say them back with ease.

Because _I love him_ and _I love him_ and _I love him _and I'll sing for him even though I'm off-key and off track and I never really was one for music anyway.)

Promise me, Future Me, that you have bottled up this feeling, this euphoria, for the long and lonely nights that keep you howling.

Promise me that his love has kept you sane.

Sincerely,

Remus


	14. Oblivious - ParvatiLavender

**A/N: **I am taking requests, by the way. Sometimes these pairings just don't come naturally, man, and I like to keep things fresh...

**Prompt:** 36. Oblivious

**Pairing:** Parvati Patil/Lavender Brown

* * *

There is no clock in your dormitory.

That is the first thing you notice.

In the beginning, this annoys you. You're the kind of person who counts the _tick tocks _to sleep, the kind of person who lets sleep wash over you in crashing waves, breaking evenly and calmly on the backs of clockhands.

But you come here, and now what?

You are just a girl at first, but you find a quick replacement for your _ticks_ and your _tocks_.

The sound of her breathing.

She falls asleep first almost every night, slipping into a steady rhythm of sighs.

_Inhale, exhale, inhale…_

And you listen, catching yourself on those gentle breaths, and you find yourself counting to the ticking of her body.

* * *

It goes on like this for years.

Now, you can only feel the pull of sleep when the sound of Lavender fills the room.

She doesn't know a thing. She doesn't know how important she has become to you. She doesn't know that you sometimes wonder if those girly chats you have, the ones about boys and kissing and _love, _well_, _if they're all a bit…silly.

Because you're too afraid to tell her, but you think you know what love is.

Love is _her_. Love is finding out that she sleeps like a starfish and you sleep like a cat, and you can fit around each other even in single beds. Love is tracing the lines of her hands with your fingers, eyes closed, and never stumbling from the path of her life line because you know it off by heart. Love is tasting last night's dinner on her breath and not caring because lazy morning kisses are the sweetest thing you've ever known. Love is the lightest shade of purple, that eye shadow that you let her dab onto your eyelids, that colour that makes your heart twist and your smile grow.

Love is Lavender.

And she will never (_can_ never) know this.

_Inhale, exhale, inhale…_

So you just wait until the dead of night, when she has fallen into her happy, blissful slumber, and you can let the rhythm of her soul guide you to your dreams.

She is oblivious; you sleep soundly.

* * *

There is no clock in your room.

That is the first thing you notice.

It is small and square and bright, filled with _Get Well Soon _cards and fake flowers. The bed is lumpy and perpetually cold, and you've spent so many nights here praying for sleep.

The second thing you notice?

There is no Lavender here.

There is no Lavender.

Because war is not a kind mistress, and you were a silly little girl to hope for so much. You thought she could love you? You thought you could be happy together?

Well, you were never brave enough to tell her that, were you?

Some Gryffindor.

Now her body is cold as stone, buried under layers of dirt and decay, and you lie in a hospital bed so they can try to treat something, something they can't quite diagnose, something they can't quite name.

But you know what it is that keeps you awake.

It's not trauma, like they think. It's not grief, or fear, or stress or any of those other things.

It's because you're the kind of person who counts deep breaths to sleep, the kind of person who lets sleep wash over you in crashing waves, breaking evenly and calmly on the backs of sighs.

And without Lavender, sleep evades you.

_Inhale, exhale, inhale…_

The only good thing is that, sometimes, you see the stars twinkle in a way that makes you think she's watching, that she knows.

Sometimes, you think she might have loved you, too.

* * *

_Inhale, exhale, inhale…_

(You wish she'd wake up.)


	15. Staircase - DracoCharlie

**A/N: **This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful Someone aka Me, for two reasons.

1. I know she likes this pairing.

2. I know how unbelievably, irrevocably, head over heels _in love_ she is with second person.

SaM, hope you like it. ;)

**Prompt: **39. Staircase

**Pairing: **Charlie Weasley/Draco Malfoy

* * *

It was never supposed to go like this, you think. Never.

He's Draco bloody Malfoy, with the sharp tongue and the even sharper glare, blond and  
white and regal and poised and everything that you're not.

Because you're Charlie bloody Weasley, with the quick hands and the even quicker laugh, ginger and freckled and hardworking and honest and everything that he wishes he could be.

And how did you end up here?

You're not even sure.

He came out to Romania, all Slytherin pride and _I'm-better-than-you _sneers, and you laughed as Belinda set his shoes on fire. Good ol' Belinda. She knocked him down a peg or two and you rubbed her scaly side and threw the burn salve at his head.

"If you're going to stay," you said, "Then you have to stop thinking you're better than everyone here."

He didn't scarper home after a few days, like you thought he would. He stuck around, prattling on about _education_ and _magical creatures_ and _danger _and you told him to shut up and leave you alone because he's Malfoy and he's an irritating little git.

Right?

Wrong.

You spent too many nights alone bandaging your fingers and washing the scent of dragon smoke from your hair, and maybe it's because he reminds you of home, or maybe it's because he's more than you give him credit for, but you liked having him around.

But somehow you ended up asking him to stay longer, the taste of firewhiskey still sharp on your tongue, as you slipped your fingers into his and promised him fire shows and dragon-back riding if only he would kiss you.

And you tangled your hands in that silver-silk hair of his and hated him a little more with every passing moment that he dragged you further into love.

It was never supposed to go like this, but it _has_, and what can you do about it?

And you spend your days shifting the balance of power, one of you standing at the top and the other scrambling up crumbling stairs to try to touch, try to hold, try to _keep_. Because he's Draco bloody Malfoy and he can't help but act like he's better than you, and you've worked here too long to let him think that. So you fight and you kiss and you laugh and you punch and the power slips from your shoulders to his and back again as you struggle to stand on common ground.

But the staircase you clamber up grows smaller and smaller, the gap to be bridged shrinking with each passing day, until you take but one step up, and your eyes are level.

And he's come so far, hasn't he?

You soothe the burns on his fair skin and he kisses you in thanks. You tell him he's an arrogant little prat and he tells you you're a self-centred, dragon-shagging arsehole.

You laugh and he glares and the world shifts back to the way it once was, both of you tumbling down useless flights of stairs and landing in the past.

But he says, "I love you anyway, though," and you say, "Of course you do," and it all shatters and today is real once again.

It was never supposed to go like this. Never.

But it has, and you couldn't be happier.


	16. Child - GinnyTonks

**A/N:** Nothing I write seems to work anymore. Inspired by Shira Lansys' Word Count Drabble challenge with the word count 245 and the prompt bubbles. Pairing also provided by Shira.

I'm trying to get back into writing these because nothing seems to be working out for me lately. So anyone I promised a pairing...it's a-coming. Promise.

**Pairing:** Ginny/Tonks

**Prompt:** 39. Child

* * *

She's too young for the weariness she wears in her smile. Tonks tries everything she can to see her just light up like the flame she is and be _happy _again, if only for a second.

The first time, she tries whipping out old family photos. She points out Ginny's missing teeth and laughs at Charlie's haircut, but when Ginny sees Ron the smile melts from her lips and her face is stony and still once again.

The second time, Tonks tries Quidditch. She's never been too skilled on a broom but she swoops and dives and misses every single ball. When it lands in the muck with a loud splat for the thirteenth time, Ginny smiles sadly and shakes her head.

The third time, Tonks is a little more reckless. She might be a _tiny bit _intoxicated, but she is sure she has it this time. She sneaks into Ginny's room with a bottle of firewhiskey (and forgets that she's too young). She watches Ginny gulp down some of the fiery liquid and laughs as her eyes squeeze shut against the burning of those little bubbles as they slip down her throat.

Third time lucky, Tonks supposes, because they get entirely too drunk and Ginny is laughing and the world is sparkling at the edges and when Ginny _kisses_her...it seems right.

She smiles at the bitter bubbles on Ginny's lips. Ginny whispers, "Thanks," and they drift off to sleep in a drunken haze.


	17. Rain - LunaPansy

**A/N:** Sorry for the upload-spam. You guys still love me, right?

This is dedicated to dayflow, for no other reason than she is one of my most loyal readers and always makes me smile. Thank you, dayflow. (And I am sorry for assuming your gender. Here's hoping I'm right, eh?)

**Pairing:** Luna/Pansy

**Prompt:** 8. Rain

* * *

The music is loud but soft, notes from the piano echoing around Pansy's head and ringing in her ears. Perhaps she has had too much to drink.

She sees her across the room. If she's honest, Pansy's been watching her all night. The woman with the honey blonde hair that falls in delicate waves and that long (_tight_) dress in deep, deep green, the one who's been sitting on a barstool and swaying to the music all night. Alone, Pansy has noticed.

Now is her chance.

She walks up to the woman-on-the-barstool and leans casually against the bar, drink in hand.

"You're very beautiful, you know," she whispers, a gentle lilt in her voice that has nothing to do with the years she's spent in Scotland and everything to do with how very ethereal this woman looks, skin so pale against the dark velvet of her dress.

"Thank you, Pansy," says the woman, with a sweet smile that brings back half-forgotten memories of long, empty corridors and a high tower that Pansy's never reached.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" she asks, "How do you know my name?"

"Pansy, it hasn't been that long since we last saw each other," she replies with a tinkling laugh, "You should know me."

And then she meets her eyes and Pansy jumps back, her hand flying to her throat, and almost shouts, "_Lovegood_?"

"Good. I was starting to worry about your memory," she grins, "You look pretty, too, by the way."

"Th- Thank you," Pansy manages, but it's an old habit, the words just falling from her lips before she can even think.

Lovegood? _Loony _Lovegood?

"You," she tries, but fails to form a coherent sentence.

"Me? Why am I here, you mean?" and that is exactly what Pansy means. How did Loony get that? Dear Merlin, she can read minds. Which means she knows exactly all the ways that Pansy has imagined her lithe form bent in that tight dress, all the different colours that she would bring out on that pale skin, all the kisses she would rain down on Lovegood's long neck...

And maybe it's just the alcohol talking, but Lovegood or no, Pansy wants all these things and more. So she stays. And she stares. And she smiles.

"You're staring."

"You're beautiful."

"You've said that."

"I have, haven't I?" Pansy says with a grin, "Why don't we go for a walk?"

* * *

The night is cold and the clouds are dark, but it smells like Halloween and the streetlamps are brighter than any sun could be.

The rain hits her skin painfully, each droplet cold and sharp. She turns to see Luna covering herself with her hands and Pansy, being slightly tipsy, decides that she's not going to let the rain ruin her night.

She grabs Luna by the hand and pulls her right out into the middle of the road.

Pansy takes Luna in her arms, the alcohol in her veins making her brave and reckless and perhaps a little overly romantic. She twirls Luna beneath the stars, watching as she smiles at the sky and lets the raindrops paint her face with the watery reflection of the streetlamps.

"You're beautiful."

"So you keep telling me," Luna breathes, "But you still haven't kissed me."

So Pansy does, and they forget all about the rain in favour of midnight kisses and keeping each other warm with body heat and promises of _tonight, just tonight_.


	18. Explosion - SeamusBlaise

**A/N:** Written for tmmdeathwishraven, who requested SeamusBlaise with the prompt floo powder. Hope you like it, m'dear! And remember, people, I take requests! The weirder the pairing, the better :D

Also, I don't know why, but this one has got a fair few curse words. I don't know what came over me... Do I normally use curse words? I don't think I do. Unless... Hm.

Ramble over.

**Pairing:** Seamus Finnigan/Blaise Zabini

**Prompt:** 7. Explosion

* * *

Naturally, it's all your fault.

You're a fucking disaster, blind drunk and heavy tongued and Lavender tells you to get out of her house and do _not come back until you've sobered up completely, you ignorant arse.  
_  
So you do.

You stumble to her fireplace and you scream something that should be _Goodfuckingbye!_ but sounds a lot more like _Guhfoonbye_and you throw more than a handful of floo powder down and fall into emerald green flames and scream, "Home, home, fucking home!" and hope that you were articulate enough for the fire.

You weren't.

You spin through the grates and see flashes and flashes of homes that aren't yours. Your stomach is sick and you're not sure which is spinning faster, the floo or your head. The vomit rises in your throat and you want to grasp the walls, you want to stop fucking _spinning_, but you need to get home. But it's that or get sick all over yourself, isn't it?

So instead you leap from the grate and hope you're not too far away from home.

Something happens, something goes wrong, and the fireplace crackles and shakes behind you and then there is a _bang! _Clouds of emerald dust rain down over the carpet and coat your robes in a layer of green. Fuck. You look around quickly, desperately, hoping that the explosion wasn't nearly as loud as you think. You're in a small sitting room with only a flickering candle for light, the house owner curled up in an armchair with a book on his lap. He looks familiar. And bloody shocked.

"Finnigan? What the fuck are you doing in my house?"

_Zabini. _You don't say anything, but hold your hands to your mouth to try and stop yourself being sick.

"Merlin, Finnigan, are you drunk? I'd make an Irish joke here but you're making this a little too easy, aren't you?"

"Shut up, Zam- Bamz- Zabinini," you blurt from behind your fingers.

"You're in my house. You've just exploded into my sitting room! I'll say whatever the hell I want to say! Now get out."

"Can't," you manage to say, albeit weakly, the waves of nausea subsiding slowly.

"Lovers' spat?" he asks mock-sympathetically.

"Something like tha'."

"Awh, Thomas kick you out?"

"Th-_hic_- Thomas? Dean? No, no, Lavender, Zambini, Lavender."

"Really? I thought you two were shagging for years."

"No, no, no, no, no. Dean is a boy, Zibini. Lavender is -_hic_- not."

"And you're telling me that you don't fancy Thomas? Not even a tiny bit?"

"Of course not! Silly Zambi..."

"You're not too drunk to lie then, are you?"

"Dean is my f-friend, he's my friend."

"Of course he is," Zabini whispers, rising from his chair and stepping closer and closer to you, his eyes glinting in the candlelight. "But you wish it were more than that, don't you? You wish he would look at you. Touch you. _Kiss_you."

And then he is so very close that you can taste his laughter as he closes the space between you. Zabini's lips are rough and dry against your jaw but his fingers are soft on your neck, tracing the vein that bulges, thick and blue, throbbing along with the excitement of your rapidly beating heart.

"Do you wish he would touch you like this, Finnigan?" Zabini murmurs, his mouth dangerously close to yours. "Do you wish he would...kiss you?"

And then your lips meet and the explosion of the floo is nothing at all to this. Your lips sing and your tongue burns with his touch, every nerve in your body shouting and screaming and calling his name and you are clawing at his shirt with fingers that are too drunk and clumsy for this.

He chuckles darkly into the kiss.

"Knew it."

And he pushes you back from him with a sneer.

"Now get out of my house."

You stand there, slack-jawed, confused and lost and desperate and Zabini is folding his arms and glaring at you. He is daring you to defy him, to stay a while longer, and you think that maybe he _wants_ you to.

But you're drunk.

So you say, "Fine, fine. Where's th'door?"

He stays still, his glare still angry and sharp on his face and his eyes narrowed in contempt. The seconds pass slowly as you sway on your feet and Zabini stares you down.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he growls, and then his hands are at your back and his lips are against yours once more and the world is spinning again but this time it's good, oh so good, and Zabini smiles against your lips.

"Fuck Thomas," he mutters. "You're mine now."

"That was –_hic - _quick," you reply.

"Not really, Finnigan. I've been waiting too long for this," he says, and then you're kissing again and the reply you tried to formulate is swallowed so your contented sighs are the only response he gets.

_And, quite frankly_, you think,_ fuck Lavender, too._


	19. Interrupt - JamesSirius

**A/N:** Where would we be without Shira? This was written for her Word Count Drabble Challenge (as roughly 50% of my fics are) with each section having a specific word count. 97, 198, 200, 89 and 121 words respectively.

Also written for FoxfaceWeasley's Reunited Challenge, where I was provided with the pairing.

**Pairing:** James/Sirius

**Prompt:** 12. Interrupt (because their relationship is interrupted, right? Right. Warning: loose use of prompt.)

* * *

"Most blokes don't kiss each other," Sirius says.

"But we've never been 'most blokes', have we?" says James, and kisses Sirius again.

Because they're young and they're beautiful and why the fuck not?

"Don't tell the others," Sirius begs quietly, bouncing on the balls of his feet and breathing deeply.

"Calm down," says James, "No one needs to know."

Sirius nods shakily. There's a hint of a smile on his lips before James is on him again, lip to lip, hip to hip, smile to smile.

Because they're boys and they're reckless and why the fuck not?

* * *

"Pads, I'm sweating," James murmurs. "Get off me."

"S'cold," Sirius mumbles sleepily, and clings tighter to James for fear that he will be tossed out of the bed.

"Your hair is practically down my throat, you know," says James, but Sirius knows that he's just acting all nice so that Sirius will drop his guard and then James can kick him to the floor. Again.

"James," he says suddenly, "Do you think they know?"

"Know what?" James asks, as if Sirius isn't wrapped around him like a lover, as if Sirius' name wasn't just a moan on his tongue, as if Sirius is nothing to him. And maybe that's not how he _means_ it, but that's how it _sounds_.

"Nevermind."

"Look, Pads. There's nothing to notice, right?" James whispers.

"Right," Sirius says, but his heart is sinking and his smile is gone. He closes his eyes again and tries to fall asleep, wondering how it would be if people _did_ know.

James kisses the top of his head. Sirius tries to pretend he is just happy that he hasn't been turfed to the floor.

But James' words echo in his head and Sirius might as well be alone.

* * *

"God, look at her," James says with a stupid grin. "She's gorgeous, isn't she?"

"Yes," Remus says with a sigh. "Evans is a beautiful specimen. The world simply could not go on without her. Now finish your essay. Slughorn won't be happy if you hand up half a roll of _Lily Evans_, now, will he?"

James tears his eyes away from where Evans sits, reading quietly, and turns to his friends.

"I hate potions," he mutters darkly.

"We all hate potions," Sirius snaps, "Just get on with it, okay?"

"What?" James says, a little taken aback.

"Just – just shut up, James. Just stop _fucking_ talking! Just – just – oh, nevermind," Sirius says, growing flustered, his quill shaking in his hand, eyes downcast.

Remus blinks at him in surprise. Peter peers at Sirius over the top of his essay.

"You okay, Padfoot?" Peter asks timidly.

"Yeah," Sirius sighs. "I'm just tired. I think I'll go to bed early tonight."

The others watch in silence as Sirius gathers up his books and shoves them into his bag. As he walks away, he hears Remus ask, "What the bloody hell was that about?"

"I don't know," James lies.

Sirius falls asleep last that night.

* * *

"So you love her, then?" Sirius asks, an edge to his voice that sounds like a sulking child. He hates it.

"I've always loved her, Pads. You knew this."

There is an unspoken apology in James' eyes, as if he knows what he has done but can't acknowledge it. Sirius thinks he understands, but the bitterness burns in his chest.

"I want you to be my best man," James says.

But Sirius hears _I'm sorry for all of this. I still need you._

"Okay."

Their smiles feel like plastic.

* * *

"Welcome home, Padfoot," James says quietly. Lily stands behind him with a sad smile on her face and tears in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Sirius says, "Harry-"

"Harry'll be okay," Lily says. "I can feel it."

"Pads," James says, embracing him. Suddenly, it's very hard to breathe. There are rusty sobs caught in Sirius' throat. James is too real, too alive, and Sirius is only just realising everything he's left behind.

He kisses James quickly, his heart soaring when James doesn't pull away, when James pulls him _closer._ Because he's dead but he's _happy_, so why the fuck not?

"Lily, I-" Sirius tries, but she cuts him off.

"Welcome home, Padfoot," she says. "Thank you for saving our son."

"You're welcome."


	20. Damage - RegulusSirius

**A/N:** Shit just got weird. If you had told me this time last year that I would be writing fanfic, I'd have said, "Hm, maybe." If you had told me I'd be writing slash, I'd have said, "Woah, slow down!" If you had told me I'd be writing incest, and _SiriusRegulus_ at that, I'd probably have laughed at you and then proceeded to ignore you forever.

And yet here I am. Written for Gamma Orionis' Incestuous Challenge.

**Warning:** Tread carefully; here lies scenes of a sexual nature. Also, incest. Also, references to child abuse. (What is my life?)

**Pairing: **Regulus Black/Sirius Black

**Prompt: **2. Damage

* * *

Touch him.

Go on.

Put your hands on his skin, play his ribcage like piano keys, make him sing under your fingertips.

Go on.

(_Pervert_.)

Touch him, just the way Daddy touched you, the way Daddy broke you, the way Daddy ruined you - both of you. You are damaged goods now. Lost little boys. It is too late for you.

So stop worrying.

Just do it.

You say, "Reg, we shouldn't," even though you mean, "Reg, just kiss me," and he somehow hears what you mean through the words you try to hide behind. His lips are warm and his face is smooth under your fingertips.

"Sirius," he moans, and his throat trembles beneath your hand, his voice pulsing under your palm like vibrato confessions that you want to hear again and again and again. Your fingers tighten around his throat and his moans are weaker now, his face flushed. You grind your hips against his and sigh into his mouth.

"Regulus..."

(_You're so sick, you know that?_)

You trace his sides with your hands, dig your nails into his hips and he screams, but you silence him with your mouth and, _oh_, he is desperate for you, isn't he?

You feel him, hard against your leg, and you can almost taste the need on his tongue, the _touch me_ that he will not say.

So go on.

Do it.

Touch him, just there. Yes, just like that, oh god, _Sirius_. Touch him.

And when he spills over into your ready hand, don't let your eyes leave his. Pretend it's okay. Pretend it's normal.

(_You're disgusting._)

"Thank you," you hear, and you kiss him again. This time it's sweeter, sorrier, an apology for all the times you should have stopped but didn't.

"No more," you whisper, but you both know that's a lie.

You are back in his bed the next night, and he in yours the night after. It is so, so wrong. But you can't stop.

So go on. Don't be shy.

Touch him, Sirius. You know you want to.

Just...touch him.


	21. Free - RemusGeorge

**A/N:** _Sigh_. I don't even know.

It's odd, alright.

Written for CadensAngelus' A New Pairing Challenge and Dark'n'Devilish's Kiss In The/ At The/ On The Competition! I got RemusGeorge in the former and kiss on a mountaintop in the latter. Fun times, eh?

For those of you who don't know, Ben Nevis is the highest mountain in Britain. Or something. I used Google, okay? It's fanfiction, just go with it.

Also, set while the trio are off hunting in DH.

**AND ONE MORE THING: I meant to say something in my last update, but I've a head like a sieve. I just want to thank you all for reading/reviewing! Because this is the _21st_ chapter and that's the highest I've ever gone chapter-wise and people still actually give a shit. So that's nice. Seriously though, thank you ****_:hugs_:**

(God, I'm terrible with A/Ns. They're always so long and rambly. You guys love me anyway though, right? ...guys?)

**Pairing:** Remus Lupin/George Weasely

**Prompt:** 49. Free

* * *

There is a boy, who has a twin, and who sometimes forgets what it is to have secrets. His name is George.

There is a man, who has a secret, and who sometimes forgets what it is to be loved. His name is Remus.

Something amazing happens.

And it happens the way most amazing things do: quickly, unexpectedly, and already doomed.

* * *

It starts with the sky.

The boy says, "I need some air, mate, I'll be back in a sec," and bids the identical face across from him goodbye. He goes outside and he stands in the garden and he looks at the sky and he counts the stars. And with each number, George feels smaller and smaller and smaller. He matters less and less and less. He breathes deeper and deeper and deeper.

And he smiles.

It is this night when the man comes along, standing beside him under the keyhole pinpricks of white and blue. The stars shine together, in clusters and swarms, and the world seems a little less lonely.

"Why are you here?" George asks and Remus just nods towards the sky.

The moon shines cockily, its luminous shadow dancing across George's face. It is very almost full, but not quite.

"Oh," George says, and Remus nods again. Oh, indeed.

And nothing more passes between them that night, too lost are they in the thoughts that the sky is never-ending and they...well, they are not.

* * *

It ends with the ground.

George owls him in the dead of night, when thoughts of war and battles creep into his bedroom and dance before his eyes.

_Romulus_, he writes, _have you ever been to Ben Nevis_?

He signs is with a lone _G _and a kiss.

And that's all Remus needs.

He is there in forty seconds, still in his soft, cotton pyjamas, with the creases of his pillow pressed into his face.

George is already there and he stands straight and proud, with his back to Remus, and watches the world sleep around him. They are up so very high, and Remus feels the cold creep under his skin. The sky is dim, the stars dulling. Remus looks out into the distance.

"Why here?" he asks.

"I can see the stars and the sea from here," George replies, but he does not turn around. "I'm the sea, Remus. I'm the sea."

"You're the sea?"

"And you're the moon."

"How clever."

"I thought you'd like it," George says, and the sound of his ready laughter lilts his words, consonants blurring with the whoosh of the winds, vowels an echo through the trees.

Remus watches George from the back and wonders if anyone knows that he's not quite as much like Fred as he lets on. His silhouette is strong and silent, and he is so much more pensive, so much more sensible, so much more _George_when he is alone.

"Why do you pretend?" Remus asks, and he doesn't even need to explain because George always seems to understand.

"I don't pretend," he says, turning slowly and meeting Remus' eyes. "People just...notice him. And I wear his face, so they expect me to be just like him. But I'm _happy_, Remus. So it's okay."

"Then why are you here?" Remus asks, walking towards George without ever breaking eye contact. George's eyes are blue as the sea he claims to be, and Remus feels as if he could shine like the moon from that look alone.

"Being up this high is like- like _freedom_," George says, and holds out his hand. "Don't you ever just need to breathe?"

Remus takes George's hand in his and smiles.

"I suppose I do."

George smiles in return. "Then breathe, Remus. Now's your chance."

"Better idea," Remus murmurs, and kisses him.

And he quashes down the feelings of _this is wrong_ because he's been through that before and it does nothing, not at all, and _Sirius_ he thinks, but this is _George_, and this is_ not wrong._

Because love... Love is never wrong.

Right?

How can it be wrong if it makes Remus want to scream that there's this boy, this boy who depends on him like the sea depends on the moon, like Remus doesn't, like Remus depends on the other thirty days in each month where he is whole and sane and maybe even happy?

See, there's this boy who says that he loves Remus whether it's wrong or not, and Remus knows that boy has never been one to live by the rules anyway.

So Remus breathes deeply, sighs sadly, and smiles.

"George," he says, "You know this can never last?"

To his surprise, George nods.

"Let's not talk about that right now," he says quietly, reverently. "Let's just watch the moon."

"Okay," Remus says, content with the fact that the end is expected and that George's fingers are warm in his hand.

They share their body heat in the cold night, warming themselves with simple charms, and watching the sky lighten over the sea in the distance. Up this high, Remus feels like he can see the whole world. He feels like he is flying, like he is soaring.

But the ground crunches beneath his feet as he stands to leave, and the sadness of landing on solid ground when he Apparates home is second only to the pain of not knowing when he'll see George again, or whether things will be the same.

He supposes they won't.

(And he's right.

Because, see, there's this girl...

But Tonks makes him happy and George is just a boy anyway. He needs to remember that.)

* * *

George holds baby Teddy close and smiles.

He is so like his mother, but he's got his father's eyes. He watches as those big eyes blink slowly, lingering shut for a fraction of a second longer each time, until they do not open at all.

"Goodnight, Teddy," George croaks, but what he means is _goodnight, Remus_ and _I miss you, Fred_ and _who am I?_

Because George is so, so broken.

Teddy snuffles in his sleep and George soothes him gently, rocking him back and forth.

"Need any help?" he hears from behind, and, when he turns, he finds Angelina there with an almost-smile on her lips and understanding in her voice and he nods.

Because he does need help. So much help.

* * *

There is a man, who once had a twin, and who sometimes forgets what it means to be loved.

There was a man, who had a secret, and who died with his heart in two.

Something amazing happened once, long ago.

And it happened as most amazing things do: briefly, quietly and so very, very doomed.


	22. Challenge - CharlieRemus

**A/N:** Oh my. I've missed you all so much. You look wonderful; have you lost weight?

_The sad news:_ my laptop has died, ladies and gents, and so updates will be sporadic at best as I try to save it/buy a new one.

_The happy news:_ er...I've written you a little drabble?

For tmmdeathwishraven who requested _CharlieRemus_ with the prompt _dragons_. I'm not sure it's exactly what you wanted, m'dear, and it's quite short, but here it is!

(Don't worry, other requests will come. This one just kind of attacked me. On a bus. At nine in the morning.)

**Prompt:** 14. Challenge

**Pairing:** Remus Lupin/Charlie Weasley

* * *

He's not quite as dangerous as your dragons.

But you can see it in his eyes.

He's got that anger, bottled up. He's got that fire-flare, that incessant need to burn. He's got that darkness, right beneath his skin and he's got that need, the need to fly and watch the world shrink beneath him.

But he's got that smile, too. That smile that says _it's okay, I'm okay_, even though you know he's not.

But maybe he is. Maybe he _thinks_ he is. Maybe he believes he's okay and maybe that's enough to let him keep the smile on his face and the fire in eyes, maybe that's enough to keep him contained.

Maybe he is dangerous.

Maybe he's a lot more like your dragons than you thought.

And you've always been drawn to danger, haven't you, Charlie? Always did like a challenge, you.

So what are you waiting for?

(The wolf in his eyes can see you, you know. He's waiting for you to pounce.)


	23. Self control - RemusCharlie

**A/N:** People are not happy with me borrowing their laptops and not telling them why. *is a closet fanficcer* Note: some profanity a-coming. Also, when I say _pants, _I mean underwear. I felt strangely American rereading it. Pants. Heh.

For tmmdeathwishraven who requested _CharlieRemus_ and then made me kind of love it. Sigh. As if I needed more things to ship.

**Prompt:** 32. Self control

**Pairing:** Remus Lupin/Charlie Weasley

* * *

He's leaning against the doorjamb with a smile on his lips and a look in his eyes that says_ I dare you_.

Remus knows he's the kind of boy who whispers _fuck me_ in quiet corners of loud nightclubs, the kind of boy who takes home strangers with slim wrists and bright eyes regardless of what they've got in their pants, the kind of boy who _makes_ love but doesn't really _feel_ it.

Remus is none of these things. Remus is the opposite of these things.

Remus is scared.

But when Charlie says, "You miss him, don't you?" and walks forward oh so slowly but not nearly slow enough, Remus only nods. He does not run, as he should. He does not say, "Goodnight, Charlie." He does not ask him to leave, does not close the bedroom door in his face, does not crawl into bed and fall into exhausted slumber alone.

No. Remus nods, and Charlie sits beside him, pretending to understand.

"You loved him, didn't you?"

Remus nods again. His eyes are stinging. He stares at the floor, ignoring how Charlie's fingers are rubbing circles along his spine, how Charlie's warmth is burning his side in this icy bedroom, how Charlie makes him feel like a blushing, inexperienced, little child.

"I knew it," Charlie says softly. "Mum never would say, but I knew it."

Remus doesn't know what to say. He wants to look at Charlie but he's too afraid. Part of him wants to kiss Charlie, to touch Charlie, to drag Charlie backwards onto the bed and keep pretending he's okay. But he's Remus, and he's the kind of man who waits for someone else to make a move, the kind of man who lets _love_ find _him_, the kind of man who doesn't just _fuck_ for nothing.

He's got more self control than he has sense.

So he stays quiet.

"Remus," Charlie says, "Look at me."

Remus hesitates. He can't help it. He only meets Charlie's eyes when there are long fingers pushing his chin up, and he sees then that Charlie's eyes are blue. He's never noticed before.

The world seems to stop for that moment, with Charlie's fingers on his face and Charlie's eyes on his and Remus wants _more_ but he wants _out_, he wants to kiss him but he wants to push him out the door and he wants Charlie to stop fucking _teasing_ him, for Merlin's sake.

"I'm too old for this, Charlie," he whispers.

"You're only a few years older than me," Charlie replies, and Remus can feel the damp heat of his breath like the wave of heat from a lit candle. He cannot look away from those blue, blue eyes.

"Twelve years is hardly _a few_," Remus says, his tongue dampening his dry lips clumsily.

"Twelve years," Charlie whispers, and Remus can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand. "Is twelve years really that long?"

His eyes burn into Remus', blue hellflames, and Remus feels a knot in his throat. _Twelveyears_ and _SiriusSiriusSirius_ run through his head but he's not thinking straight anymore, not at all. His breath comes in little pants and his eyes are filling with tears.

"Shut up," he growls, and then he is on Charlie, lips and teeth and tongues and hands, fire and ice and too many clothes, _yes_ and _oh, God_ and_ Siri- Charlie,_ and Remus is pretending again.

And, really, who needs self control anyway?


	24. Beginning - AlbusScorpius

**A/N:** I'm not updating as regularly as I was; I know this, and I am trying to rectify it. College though...it's stressful. All outstanding requests to be completed soon!

For Round 3 of the November Fanfiction Tournament, requiring a fic about a third year.

**Pairing:** Albus Potter/Scorpius Malfoy

**Prompt: **25. Beginning.

* * *

Your parents' annual Christmas party. _Everyone_ is here, and you've always hated crowds, haven't you?

The door barely makes a sound as it closes behind you.

It's so very cold outside. You can feel yourself shivering. That icy scent of winter is in the air, frost and firewood, and you throw your eyes up to the sky. The stars are so bright in that deep blue sky.

There is a sudden noise behind you, and you jump, startled, but it is just another boy.

He walks as quick and stiff as a toy soldier would, cigarette dangling between his fingertips and smoke darting out from between his narrow lips, and _you_ are _staring_, Mr. Potter.

He laughs somewhere deep in his throat and you feel it somewhere deep in your stomach and he says, "So. You're Albus."

Your name rolls off his tongue in a way you've never heard before, so foreign and so familiar and _right_. A part of you wants to ask him what the hell he's doing with a _cigarette,_ doesn't he know that will _kill_ him, he's only _thirteen,_ for Merlin's sake, but the _rest_ of you...the rest of you wonders how his name would taste, whether or not it would burn your throat or leave a trail of ash across your tongue, and you want to say it out loud but you _can't_.

"I'm Scorpius." he says, as if you didn't know, as if you haven't been watching him for years now.

"I know."

His eyes pierce you like hot metal pokers, their colour just as bright, just as shining silver. His gaze is heavy on your lips. You blush.

"Where've you been hiding?" he says, his words caught in a smoky embrace and dancing into the air like tumbling waves. He taps the end of his cigarette and you watch the ash quiver, flutter, fall to the floor.

"Nowhere."

"Liar," he mutters in between quick drags of the deathstick clutched between his teeth. His cheeks hollow, caving in like the ceiling of an old church, and his cheekbones are sharp as those shattered stained glass windows.

"You just haven't been looking hard enough," you say quietly, and he's _looking _at you again.

"Fair enough," he says. "Consider my eyes open from now on."

The sweeping gaze he grazes along the bumps of your body makes your breath stutter, makes you wish you had a Beater's body, but you don't. You are skinny little Al Potter and maybe it's not all bad, because the way his lip curls up and his eyes light up makes you think he likes that.

Makes you think he likes _you_.

With a flick, he throws the cigarette butt to the ground. It catches in the wind and dances through the air like a gymnast, before it gets caught between the vines of an overgrown bush. The flame still flickers orange at the end.

"See you around then, Potter." His smirk is undeniable, the teasing in his voice inconceivable, and you want to feel those words pressed against your skin.

He walks away, toy soldier once more, straight backed and proud and, dear _Merlin_, you should not feel like this.

(But, Albus dear, this is only the beginning.

This party is nowhere near over.)

You spend the rest of the night blushing in the dark and trying not to imagine a tangle of limbs and teeth and blond and black and so much _skin._

And, suddenly, it's not that cold out here at all.


	25. Never - SeamusDean

**A/N: **Written for Mrs. Bella Riddle's Loved and Hated Ships Competition! Deamus is my loved, obviously. Keep an eye out for my hated..._Snarry_. It'll be separate to this collection, but will use one of the prompts from this challenge. If you check it out, I will love you forever because it's _Snarry_ and do you know how hard that was to write? (Will admit that I had a lot of fun writing it. Perhaps too much.)

Also, I love Andrea Gibson. You should look her up.

**Pairing:** Dean Thomas/Seamus Finnigan

**Prompt:** 21. Never

* * *

**When you said, "I'll teach you how to fall,"****  
****I said, 'I bet you will.'**

_Stay_, Andrea Gibson

* * *

The war is over now.

He is alive; he is safe.

He stands before you with his bruised and battered heart in his cupped hands and offers it to you as a sign of peace, as a question of love, as a promise of what could be. You rip open your chest, cracking at the ribs, and let him in.

He brushes his fingertips along the back of your neck and whispers _why_ into your ear; because you're always _there_, because you're _funny_, because you make him _smile_ even when the rain is falling and even when the snow is thick and that's something no one else can do. You are _you_, and that is enough.

You kiss him softly and tell him the same.

He folds himself around you like an envelope, slipping you close to his chest and leaving postage stamps on your neck in the shape of his mouth. He wraps you up in his arms like a gift, ties your wrists together and twists them around his neck so that you cannot get away; you are a knot, a little bow of limbs. He splays his hands wide across your bare chest, calls you pale and pasty and promises to bring out some colour in you other than the blue of your eyes. You touch the dark skin of his wrists and tell him that you are his and you are sure his blood runs pure.

He smiles sadly and says that he is sorry he ever had to leave. You kiss him roughly and tell him you are too.

But never again, never again.

Because the war is over now.

And he is safe; you are happy.


	26. Whisper - DeanSeamus

**A/N:** 'Allo, my lovelies! So, apparently I have been nominated as _Best Gryffindor Author_ in the Couture Awards. I am beyond flattered, and would like to say a very big** thank you** to my nominator, **Laura**. And what better way to say it than with some lovely Gryffindor boys?

_(**PS**. As an Irish person, I'm allowed to be as stereotypical as I like when it comes to Seamus and there's nothing you can do about it.)_

_(**PPS**. If you want to vote for me - and I will love you if you do - you can do so in the poll on Couture Girl's page. Thank you!)_

_(**PPPS**. I am behind on review replies/requests. I know this; I am sorry and I love you. Will catch up/write/publish a lot over the next week. Promise, guys. Promise.)_

* * *

**Prompt:** 29. Whisper

**Pairing:** Dean Thomas/Seamus Finnigan

* * *

It's the middle of the war and you're caught in your own private battle when the whispers come in a foreign tongue.

They are coming for you, _the Snatchers_, and your heart hammers, your lips are cracked and dry and, _dear Merlin, _the wind carries those whispers so gently across your skin, as if they are carried on his very breath.

You hide between tall trees and dark bark, praying to gods you don't believe in and clutching your wand tightly between your fingers, and all you can hear, all you can think of, is the echo of his voice and words you didn't understand.

But you do now, don't you?

He was trying to tell you, you _fool_, he was trying to tell you but he _couldn't_ and so he told you the only way he could. You know that now.

_Táim i ngrá leat, _he had whispered, and how had you responded? A laugh, a nod, a question - it doesn't matter. When he speaks Irish, he never translates for you. Ever. You've come to understand things like _Wh__at time is it? _and _Where is my tie? _but that's the extent of your Irish. You never were one for languages.

But this one, _these_ words...

You think of him now, his blue, blue eyes and his crooked smile, the freckles on the backs of his hands and how he is always he first out of bed. You think of his pale skin and his sloppy handwriting and his bloody Irish pride. You think of his floppy fringe, his cackling laugh, his whispers after the lights have gone out and you miss him so bloody much.

Why didn't you understand? How could you have missed it?

But as the words come back to you now, echoing in the rustle of the trees, you know exactly what they mean. You don't know how you know, and you'd never be able to spell them or write them down but you feel them, burning your heart in the way only his words could; _I love you.  
_  
And you try to picture his face and hope that he knows that you love him too.

Only after that do you hope that you make it out alive.

(The whispers follow you all the way out and only really stop when you are safe.

And, even then, you think you can hear something in the wind.

_Something_.)


	27. Graceful - PadmaLuna

**A/N:** Inspired into being by the Circular Stories Challenge (which asks that they first and last line be pretty much the same) and Chocoballs in owluvr's Honeydukes Competition (write a romance).

Dedicated to the wonderful yellow 14, who inspires not only me, but most of the HPFC forum, to "_keep writing_". Hope you like it, m'dear!

[Also, I forgot to mention in the last chapter that my Snarry fic is up - _your mother's eyes. _So if any of you are as sick and perverted as I am... ;)]

* * *

**Prompt:** 27. Graceful (Has anyone else noticed how the prompts are becoming less and less relevant as this collection goes on? I should fix that.)

**Pairing:** Luna Lovegood/Padma Patil

* * *

Nobody ever wonders how the staircases move.

I never wonder how they move, neither of us do – we just sit there in the middle of the night and let them dance and twirl gracefully, taking us with them, and never, ever wonder how.

We spend those nights sprawled out across the bottom steps, Luna with her back arched awkwardly and her arms slung back, me with my head nestled into her neck and my lips against her collarbone.

Tonight, the sky is dark and the moon is slung high, casting shadows through the windows above us. The staircases are spinning, moment by moment, and the shadows dance across our skin.

"Do you believe in God?" I ask, but I know Luna thinks we are too young to believe in anything but love. She only stares at the ceiling, saying nothing.

"Do you believe in magic?" I ask this time, but my voice is quiet and shy and I feel my breath, warm, caught against her skin.

"I don't need to believe in magic," Luna says confusedly. "It just..._is_."

"What if magic is love?" I ask. "What if love is magic?"

Luna smiles, dreamy eyed. But then there is a creak, and a shift, and we are spinning again, grabbing onto the stair rails and holding tight. The stairs move slowly, deliberately, and we watch the paintings and portraits and night-sky views through dusty windows as they flash by, and I swear, _this_ is the closest thing to magic I have ever felt.

"Magic," Luna says when we have stopped, "can be used for evil, or by the wrong people. I don't think the same is true for love."

"No," I say, and then I am kissing her softly, tenderly. "No, I don't think so either."

Silence, except for the sound of her breathing and my drum of a heartbeat.

"I'll miss you, Luna," I say quietly, whispering it like a confession to a priest, as if no one should ever know but her. She looks at me and I see in her eyes a phantom of hope, but neither of us dare mention it. It is too much to hope that we will both come back here, that the war will end, that we will come out the other side with our limbs linked like chains and the other's name in our every exhale.

"We'll be fine," she says, and her smile is genuine and perfect and I want to believe her, I do, I do.

It is then that we are spinning gracefully again, and I think perhaps the staircases know when our hearts are beating through our chests and love is filling us like balloons or buckets, ready to burst or overflow, and I am kissing her so sweetly that it almost hurts.

The thought dies as Luna's hands find my skin and I forget how to think.

We are still spinning, still kissing, still loving, but we do not wonder why or what or how. There is no time in life for questioning good things. They happen and we smile and we accept them; they will happen regardless of the whys and the hows and we know this.

After all, nobody ever wonders how the staircases move.


	28. Glorious - ChoLuna

**A/N: **It's been so long. I'm sorry. I went through a bit of a dry spell, but I think I'm back, ladies and gents! Yay! The ol' writing muscles still feel a bit stiff (sorry for the crapness) but I'm getting back in there.

You can all thank the lovely Amber, aka Cheeky Slytherin Lass, for just being herself.

Imma go ahead and dedicate chapter to her because she loves ChoLuna and this is her fault.

* * *

**Pairing: **Cho Chang/Luna Lovegood

**Prompt: **33. Glorious

* * *

**one**

She smells like cinnamon, smells like starshine. She complements the coffee you drink every morning and lulls you to sleep each night with her perfume. She is the first breath of the day and the last of the night.

**two**

She's got eyelashes that scream for snowflakes to kiss, pale and long and delicate. She blinks slowly, blue eyes wide. She sleeps, oh so still, barely moving, and you imagine how snowflakes would shine, caught between her lashes and pale against her skin.

**three**

Her mind takes routes you can't even see. It takes turns you don't expect, runs down back alleys and side streets trying to find roadways where you can keep up but it never does. It runs faster than you can even question, but she always waits for you to catch up. Somehow.

**four**

She breathes soft as butterfly wings and her breath tickles your shoulders with the barest touch. She whispers things, and they curl around your neck to make a home on your skin; sweet nothings forever yours.

**five**

She is Luna. She is strange, and glorious, and _yours. _She loves you.

Isn't that enough?


	29. Shock - ParvatiLavender

**A/N:** Dear Merlin. **E****veryone remain calm. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. I REPEAT. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.**

Two in one night? This one is worse than the last, but forgive me. I really don't like this one. BUT I REFUSE TO FAIL THIS CHALLENGE AGAIN. For the One Hour, Two Drabbles Challenge, as is the previous chapter, which I think I forgot to say. Oops.

And, _yes, _I know Lavender didn't die. But Parvati also wasn't in love with her, Harry wasn't shagging Draco and Regulus wasn't constantly seducing Remus. (Sirius and Remus were, however, in love.)

* * *

**Pairing:** Parvati Patil/Lavender Brown

**Prompt:** 16. Shock

* * *

You were always something. Always special.

_Lavender Brown. _Even your name foretold the kind of _pretty_ you would grow to be, with your painted-pink lips and your skirt set low on your hips.

At fifteen years old, I fell in love.

You were scrubbing ink from your fingernails and I was laughing at the concentration burrowed into the lines of your face, the way your tongue was caught between your teeth, the way the water just wouldn't run clear. You were sighing.

You said, "I'm a fucking disaster."

I wanted to tell you that you were _my _disaster.

You always were.

At seventeen years old, I fell apart.

They said, "I haven't seen her since..." and I _knew._

You were always gorgeous, Lavender. Always pretty. But they way _he_ left you – you were a battered angel, a bruised and broken idol, a goddess with her throat ripped out, beauty with no holds barred; you were shattered perfection and I was clutching you tight to my chest, sobs pained, knees bloodstained – I couldn't let you go.

They said, "She was so beautiful," as if death has taken that from you, covered you in a veil of _plain_ and _ugly._

I said – always will say – quietly, but carefully, "She still is."

Because I know you, Lav. I know every wind chime giggle that hit me square in the chest, every lip curve, half smile, every freckle on your forearms. I know every scar on your hand from each quill you snapped in half when you were distracted by boys, I know every shocked eyebrow raise and every _oh! _when gossip comes your way, I know every whisper behind hands when you think no one is looking.

They are, Lav.

They were.

I was.

And I know you. I have always known you, and you have always been beautiful.

You were always something. Always special.

(I miss you.

I love you.

I need you.)


	30. Noise - RoxanneDominique

**A/N:** I don't even know what this is. But I love writing from nowhere and publishing immediately, throwing caution to the wind! I'm wild like that. This one is dedicated to my baby, Amber, because she always manages to get me writing somehow.

(Also, if you take out the cousiny part, this is totally our tragic love story.)

Warning for cousincest. Roxanne's POV. Additional prompt of "face" used, courtesy of Amberita herself.

* * *

**Pairing:** Roxanne/Dominique

**Prompt:** 47. Noise

* * *

There is something gentle about her heartbeat, and the way it whispers to me. It is strong and steady and reassuring, but it's sweet and soft and delicate all the same.

It is the noise I have come to associate with her. It is everything that she is.

"I don't know," she whispers, "how to look away from car crashes."

And I know what she means.

I trace my fingertips across the valley of her skin; the rise of her thigh, the curve of her hip, the valley of her waist. She is a sunless horizon at the edge of my world – I would know the line of her body anywhere.

"If you close your eyes," I whisper back, "we can pretend there is no crash."

I am not quite sure how to love her without getting hurt. She is too many edges, all angles and bones, sharp as the marble she seems to have been carved from. Look at her; pale as the moon and just as important. She is the only thing that gives me light.

"It doesn't work that way," she says, louder this time, and I know there is no way around it.

"I love you."

"I love you."

But there we are; face to face, and she still won't close her eyes.

"I love you."

"You can't."

And it wouldn't hurt this much if I could believe her, believe that we were too alike, too close, too _related_ to be in love. There are no limits on emotion. There are no laws on this, no way they can tell my heart to stop stuttering under her touch, no way they can tell my lips to stop mouthing her name in my sleep, no way they can tell my eyes to stop searching her smile for my name, tucked into the corners and frayed at the edges – there is no way I can _stop _this, whatever this is.

When she is gone, I look in the mirror.

My skin is dark as the night sky in which she shines. My eyes are heavy with regret. My body is made up of lines that are softer than hers, but not nearly as stunning, not nearly as cutting, not nearly as _Dominique_.

"I love you."

But she is long gone, and I spend my nights wondering who listens to her heartbeats now.

Because, Merlin knows, the car crash she made of me sounds in mine, the mangled mess of my love, bruised and broken and bloody, beats her name in my chest. I let nobody else listen.

When the lights are out and the moon is full, and I am sitting at the window, watching it shine in the sky, I wonder when the world started becoming my mirror.

I wonder when the world started thinking it was okay to keep turning.

I wonder how her heart beats without me to listen.

I wonder where she is in the world.

And I wonder it alone.


	31. Homework - RoseDominique

A/N: For MissDominiqueLysander, who requested DomRose! Also, just so you all know, you can all blame Amber for the recent influx of femslash.

This is one of those things that seemed better in my head. I wish you could all see inside my head. It's pretty cool in there, I swear. And I'm in a drabbley mood, so there might be a few more chapters up tonight. If you're lucky ;)

* * *

**Pairing: **Rose/Dominique

**Prompt: **15. Homework

* * *

**i.**

Six year olds scratching "once upon a time" into the kitchen table with their fingernails, saying that princes will find them some day and their castles will be right next door to each other and their daughters will be _just_ like them – small, sun-loving dreamers.

Rose says, "But princes aren't as fun as you."

Dom says, "That's why I'll be right next door."

And their fingernails hurt from scratching fairytales into wood that's too unyielding.

**ii.**

Eleven year olds saying goodbye and falling to sleep under different coloured canopies, dreaming that they were together. Always together.

Rose says, "Ravenclaw _would_ suit you. We should try again."

Dom says, "You should be in Gryffindor, too, Rosie. You should."

And they find homes in separate places, each a lonely princess in a tower of her own, but they always sit at the windows and imagine what it would be like if they were just a little more alike.

**iii.**

Sixteen year olds sitting beneath shady trees and wondering if the sun is burning their skin or if they are a little _too_ close. Rose blushes; Dom grins.

Rose says, "It's not wrong, you know. To be in love."

Dom says, "It's not right either."

And they find themselves imagining what it would be like if they were a little less alike. Because it's not right, and they know that. So they smile and they blush but they never, ever kiss, and they never, ever touch. But they want to.

And that's what counts.

**iv.**

Seventeen year olds stressing over NEWTs and homework and boys and how _not_ to love your cousin, and they only have each other for help.

Rose says, "I don't understand."

Dom says, "You don't always have to."

And the thing is she's Dom, and she _believes _that, but she's Rose, and she always _thinks_ too much. And when the boys look away, they're holding hands under their desks and scratching "once upon a time" into each others' wrists and wondering why they'd ever need princes anyway.

**v.**

Eighteen year olds wearing bridesmaids dresses and twirling for Victoire, who cries and smiles and looks so caught between the two most of the time that Dom wonders if her prince did any saving at all.

Rose says, "I can't wear this."

Dom says, "Rose, what have you done?"

And Rose covers up her exposed arms, hides the gashes and slashes that she's carved into her skin, says _I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ and tells Dom she just doesn't understand fairytales anymore. And maybe she never did.

**vi.**

Twenty-one year olds kissing the bruises onto each others' necks and fighting their way out of dishonour and disgrace, explaining to every family member who wears shock on his brow, donning dresses for princesses – and not a prince in sight.

Rose says, "I'm sorry. I love you. Don't leave me."

Dom says, "I'm sorry. I love you. Don't ever let me go."

And Rose writes upside down and backwards, telling stories that never make any sense; stories about princes who love princes and princess who don't, and Dom finds she doesn't much care, as long as she's not writing on the inside of her wrists anymore.

**vii.**

****Ageless and gorgeous and singing songs about "happily ever after".

Rose says, "I love you more than anything ever."

Dome says, "I love you more than that."

And they are falling and flying and living and dying but, together, they are never far from home.


	32. Bet - AliceBella

**A/N:** Let's call this one...an experiment. I've been doing a lot of that lately. Have you noticed?

This is for Amber and Gamma's Femslash Project, because the world needs more ladylove.

Also, dedicated to mah wifey, Amberita, because...just because.

* * *

**Pairing:** Alice Longbottom/Bellatrix Lestrange

**Prompt:** 37. Bet

* * *

when love (love, love, _second_ love) storms into my life like a hurricane of carelessness and destroys everything i have built up, i want to know that you are true - before i _fall._

(too far, too fast, i've already fallen for – )

that you are _honest_.

if there's anything i want, it's to be able to love you without _doubting_ so much but you're so hard to believe, you're so hard to _trust_, with your grey (_Black_) eyes and your fucking _devil may care_ smile –

who are you to take my heart as your own? who are you to ruin me in so many ways and claim innocence when your eyes find mine in battle? as if the moments we spend nestled between sheets in the early hours of the morning, crying for home, are _nothing._

_home. _my husband talks too much of murder these days. he is starting to remind me of you.

you.

_(i never understood_

_the insanity in your eyes_

_was always a blessing_

_in disguise;_

_you will always be _

_crazy about me)_

tell me you love me.

i need to _know_; when he comes for me, bella, i need to know that you loved me until your _bones_ gave in, trusted me for all the things i told you and all the things you know i meant to.

i want to love you without caution, want to know that my sixteen year old self had it oh so right when she fucked herself over and fell soft against your spine; skin against skin (against nature).

i want you to know that my heart is a torn envelope, paper thin and split where you tore me open to read my insides too quickly. my fingertips are the letters i could not write. but if i press them to your skin, i am still promising the same things.

_(i promise you that _

_i will love you _

_without breaking _

_the boundaries _

_of the war _

_that we are _

_still fighting.)_

i love you.

remember that when he sends you.

(i bet you'll be the first one to find me.)

_alice_


	33. Curse - BartyCedric

**A/N:** If you love me, o reader mine, you should write this pairing. _Ridiculously, painfully _underloved.

This is dedicated to my Amber, because she asked for this a long time ago, and because she ships these two as hard as I do.

(As you can see from all these dedications, Amber is fast taking over my life. No regrets.)

* * *

**Pairing:** Barty Crouch Jr/Cedric Diggory

**Prompt: **5. Curse

* * *

He says he doesn't believe in love, says love is make-believe, _pretend_. He says the dreams of _happy ever after_ caught between sheets and skin are laughable, and the only love they're going to find here is learning how to believe in fairytales; love is a fairytale, full of princes with shiny crowns and distressed damsels with weak knees and too -long eyelashes and, Barty is sick of trying to save himself. Nevermind the world.

Love is a fairytale.

Cedric says love is not a fairytale. Cedric says fairytales are for children who are too afraid to sleep at night and he's seen Barty curled up dreaming, he's seen the pale white canvas of his eyelids when his eyes are shut tight and Barty knows that he's right.

Cedric says love is an adventure. Cedric says that love is for men with hearts as open as their eyes, men who aren't looking but still find what they didn't know they needed, men who _deserve_ it.

Barty says, "I am a bad man, Cedric. I don't deserve you."

Cedric says, "I know."

But he stills comes back night after night and stumbles into that land of pretend, where the story starts "_Once upon a time..._" and the princes are happy singing lullabies to each others' shoulder blades. He still blinks too fast and hopes that Barty is worth it, that Barty is not a curse.

That love is not a curse.

Barty says he's sorry. Every night, over and over into the crook of Cedric's shoulder, he says, "Forgive me."

Cedric says, "Never."

But he still kiss the rough stubble of Barty's jaw, still digs his nails into Barty's forearm, still says _I love you_ when it's too dark to see the tears, or the smiles, or the thousand in-betweens.

Barty says he doesn't believe in love, says love is make-believe, _pretend_.

Cedric says love is a risk, and he pulls his heart from his chest, balances it on his fingertips and says, "_Catch._"

Barty says, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I never deserved you."

Cedric says, "I know," from somewhere in the land of make-believe.

And Barty's breath stutters on his lips, his soul scrapes between his teeth and he thinks maybe just this once he can pretend.

Just this once.

For him.


	34. Incredulous - BillDean

**A/N: **Blame Amber. Written for her Weekly Drabbles Competition, with the prompts _"If love were a choice, who would choose such exquisite pain?"- _Anna and the King_, assume _and a word count of 391 words.

Yeah, I don't even know. Just go with it.

* * *

**Pairing:** Bill Weasley/Dean Thomas

**Prompt: **50. Incredulous

* * *

Darker than dark; he is midnight-painted canvas, teeth like stars; that supernova smile could kill you. He is rough edges, thick wrists, wide shoulders. He is ink stained fingertips and hands made to hold paintbrushes. He is Ginny's ex-boyfriend and Ron and Harry's ex-roommate and your exaltation.

(He is night.)

She, she is pale as the moonlight, ice water touch and blue-veined beauty, turning colder with each passing day. You think you used to love her, but her edges are too smooth, her body too thin, too delicate. She is dainty doll hands, such a fire-breathing fear inducer, a ticking time bomb with your name tattooed onto the inside of her lips. She is your downfall.

(She is daybreak.)

And he says, "I thought you were better than this," as he crashes that supernova smile against your trembling lips. "I thought you loved her."

"So did I," you say, and it's quiet and honest and it doesn't need the burning brightness of his starshine to be utterly freeing, because it has the frostiness of her lips caught in its corners and that is enough. Things are changing.

(You always hated early mornings.)

"I thought you loved me," she says, but it is distant and exhausted, and neither of you really cares enough to lie. "I thought you were better than this."

"Better than what? Better than happiness? I assumed you'd understand; you used to always understand."

"Not this," she says, and she drops her cold shoulder, turns on her heel and leave only winter in her wake. "Never this."

"She always used to understand," you say, and he kisses your jawbone. "I loved her."

"I know."

"Why did I do this to myself?"

"You didn't," he says, kissing galaxies onto your shoulders, "No one chooses this. No one would ever choose this."

"I choose you."

"No," he says, "you didn't have a choice."

("You could've chosen me, Bill," she says, incredulous. "I have always chosen you. Always."

She only cries when there's nobody around to hear.)

"I love you," he says.

But your ex-wife's snowfall teardrops still rattle in your ribcage, still catch you by the throat, and your children don't understand how you've forgotten lightness and daybreak so soon.

(You've always been a night person anyway, right?)


	35. Knife - RegulusRemus

**A/N:** You know what I like about this collection? It's a good place to unleash the crazy in me. I don't really worry too much about what I post here, because it's all mental anyway.

So this is to all the readers who read just because. You're all fab and I love you.

* * *

**Pairing:** Regulus/Remus

**Prompt:** 41. Knife

* * *

Picture this: the moon is so high in the night sky that it bleeds onto the surface of the lake, paints it a new shade of perfection and declares itself beautiful. The stars twinkle dimly, ashamed of being so small, so insignificant, next to the beauty of that moon. The clouds roll gently by, hiding the stars in brief hugs and whispering reassurances within the night wind.

Now picture this: I am there. I am beneath the moonlight, bathed in its glory, but it does not do me the same favours it does the lake. It does not reflect itself on me; it does not let me be perfection. I am just me. Wearing my solemn eyes and your scarf around my throat; I am waiting.

Now picture, if you will, yourself. You are twisted and tangled, caught up in the body of the beast, howling to the same moon that paints my hands silver. For a moment, I pity you; you will never know this beauty. Never. I will never see you standing beneath the full moon, silver white reflecting in your eyes, bright light glinting on the lines of your scars in a way that is far more graceful and far less harsh than the sun. Never, never.

Now picture for me, lover, the edge of the blade. Picture that tightrope thin edge, that razor tooth glint, that handle smooth as the unmarred skin of my wrists as I clasp it between my moonlit fingers.

Picture the hiss, the sharp intake of breath, the whine of pain that shivers through my teeth as I dig the razor tip of that blade deep into the flesh of my arm. Picture the groan as I drag it downwards, one swift, sharp slice, and sigh. Picture the blood that pour from my wound, fresh and pure and _yours_, my love.

Now picture yourself once more: broken, bruised and beastly, sniffing the air for _that_ scent, the scent of the dying that catches the wind. Come to me, lover; take my veins between your teeth, drown in the rivers that run from my wrists. I want to know all of you. I want you to taste me, bite me, _love me._ Make me into something that isn't quite human – we can howl at the moon together. I don't want to stargaze on the nights that you can't. I want to curl up like a cub at your feet, lick your wounds clean, bark my happiness into your face.

I want to be just like you.

Come and get me, lover. I am waiting.

I am always, always waiting.

(I hope your teeth are soft as moonbeams; I hope you know how that feels.)


	36. Wind - CedricBarty

**A/N:** Written for RayenOfDeadStarsAndPlanets, who requested "these two...as children in a modern AU with flowers". It's a bit disturbing, and only slashy if you squint...

So please, do squint.

* * *

**Prompt:** 35. Wind

**Pairing:** CedricBarty Jr

* * *

Barty has a sword.

It's long and shiny and plastic, and Cedric only has his imagination and the old stick that he found by the river, but Barty says that's just as good if they pretend. They are sitting by the river, shivering against the wind, weapons held tight in their grasps, and Cedric keeps looking up at Barty's face, waiting.

"Barty?"

"What, Ced?"

"Why can't we slay dragons?"

"There are none."

"What can we slay?"

So they spend the next few hours whacking flowers in flowerbeds until the petals split or the head comes clean off, and pretending they are the Saviours of the River. The petals float in the wind, and Barty is laughing, and Cedric just keeps smiling, because he can't help but notice how very _alive_ Barty is when he's swinging his sword like that, when he's saving the world with his head flung back and his smile shining in the sunlight.

But then there is a yelp, or a mewl, a little scared noise that makes Cedric throw his hands up, throw his stick to the side, yell, "Barty, no, Barty, _stop_!" and drop to the ground next to that beaten flower patch, searching the torn flowers for the source of the sounds, and he finds it, tucked beneath the broken petals.

There's a kitten, all fluffy and helpless, and it tries to limp away but Cedric scoops it up in his arms and says, "Barty! We could've really hurt him!"

Barty cocks his head to the side, confusion in his eyes.

"But...I thought you wanted to slay dragons?"

"He's not a dragon! He's a baby kitten!"

"We're pretending though," Barty says, and the way he looks at Cedric makes Cedric shiver a little.

"I don't want to pretend anymore," Cedric mumbles. He feels tears well in his eyes, and blinks them away quickly, embarrassed.

Barty stalks closer, puts his arm around Cedric's shoulders. "Shhh, Ced, it's okay. He's a dragon. A big, bad dragon." He puts his lips right next to Cedric's ears as he whispers. His breath is warm and makes Cedric shiver all over again. "We're the Saviours, aren't we?"

"Yes," Cedric says, closing his eyes. The kitten purrs in his hands, pressing its face into his jumper.

"And the Saviours have to slay the dragon, Ced. It's the only way..."

"I don't want to pretend anymore," Cedric whispers, but Barty puts the kitten back on the ground and grins.

"Ready?" he asks.

Cedric wants to say no, he really does.

But Barty has a sword, and Cedric only has a stick.


	37. Chair - BartyRabastan

**A/N:** For my lovely Amberita, who requested these two _forever ago._

Also, guys, I am so close to finishing this boot camp that I can damn near taste it. Half-tempted to stay up and write the last few drabbles.

* * *

**Pairing:** Barty/Rabastan

**Prompt:** 45. Chair

* * *

"Baby, don't fret," you say, and no one's _ever_ called me baby before – no one's ever cared_. _"Baby, don't worry, it'll all be over soon."

And my hands are shaking, my eyes burning, my bones rattling; the clanking of chains echoes in our ears. This courtroom smells of distrust and disgust and I hate it.

"Baby, don't cry," you say, and I'm shaking against you, my father's voice hanging in the air, heavy and broken, and I wonder if it's him I hate, and not this place. I think you understand me a little too well sometimes. "You've got me, baby. You've got me."

"I know," I say, "I know," but I'm still shaking, my stomach still rolling itself into knots and my spine straight and sharp and strangely icy. You whisper in my ear, voiceless reassurances, empty promises, and I can't even hear you anymore over the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my head, but I feel safer knowing you're there.

You told me once that I was fearless and you loved me for it. _Fearless_. There's something almost comical about that now that my knees are weak, now that the backs of my legs are damp and sticking to the metal of this chair.

There is no _fearless_ when your life hangs in the balance, Rab. I know that know.

(_You're the worst off of us all. You're caught in a family who wouldn't understand. You are always so unafraid. So fearless.")_

My father's shame is a palpable thing, screaming loudly and filling the room with hate. Hate. It is a strong word, but we have been known to throw it around far too much, haven't we?

And if I truly hated him, would I feel this way? This guilty? Like I have failed him?

("_And I love you for it, Barty. You're the strongest man among us, no matter what they say_.")

He looks at me, the man that wears my face, but aged and lined and too fucking cold to really be mine. He says, "You are no son of mine." And I know then; I am not ashamed. I am not afraid. I am _disappointed_.

I have failed you, failed Him, failed us all – and I do not want my master to suffer without me. Without us.

"I have no son."

And he looks at me, waiting for the moment where I realise I am bound to rot in a prison cell, clawing at the walls and desperately fighting my own insanity.

I do not give him the satisfaction of my horror.

And maybe you were right, Rab; maybe I am fearless. Because, right now, I've never been so unafraid.

I will get out of this cell somehow. I know it.

("_I'll be waiting for you, baby_.")

It is lonely here. These stone walls remind me too much of the castle we found each other in. I want you to press me against them again, if only to make me forget.

(The only thing I fear is that I will never see you again.)


	38. Obliviate - RoxanneDominique

**A/N:** For Amber. Here, lovely; have some creepy!Roxy. I don't even know anymore, I really don't.

On another note, I only have six prompts left before I finish this boot camp. Oh, how far we've come... *throws confetti*

* * *

**Pairing:** Roxanne/Dominique

**Prompt:** 18. Obliviate

* * *

I've been watching you for too long.

It's been so long that I have mapped out your movements in my mind. I recognise the way your shoulders twitch when you smile, the curl of your fingers when you're annoyed, the way your head tilts to the side when you no longer want to listen. You are easy to read, to understand.

You are my map and I am your cartographer.

And that's not enough for me, for us; I want to memorise the map of you with my hands, cross bridges and bones with my fingers, trace the rivers of your veins back to their source. I want to be pin point all the darkest corners of you and know them inside out. I want to be lost in you.

"I think about you entirely too often," I tell you, and my voice doesn't even shake.

"What do you mean?" And I have already catalogued the rise of your left shoulder, the quirk of your eyebrow.

"Too often to be considered normal."

I wonder if you have catalogued my movements in the same way. If the tremble of my hands and the stutter on my tongue were expected.

"Roxy," you say softly, and I know this is the voice you use when you are nervous, when you are scared. Please don't be scared. "What's going on?"

"I think I might love you," I whisper. My heart beats louder than my voice rings and I hope you can hear it.

I reach for you, my fingers wrapping around your arms. I pull you close to me, press our lips together, and there is a brief moment of joy where our borders blur, where you are no longer a foreign place and if I were to map your body now, I would be right alongside you, brushing every mountain peak and every valley with my skin.

"Roxy," you murmur, and I feel your hands rise to my chest, palms out, arms stiff. "Roxy, no."

Silence falls. There is only the dwindling fall of my heart and the panting of our breaths.

"No?" My voice is hoarse. This is the voice I use when I am nervous, when I am scared. Please don't do this.

"No," you say, and, for once, I don't see it coming.

The way your hair falls in waves as you shake your head, the shape of the _no_ on your lips. This is foreign to me. I have never had to map confusion, or shock, or anything but affection between us.

I thought you would understand.

"I'm sorry, Dom, I don't know what – _Obliviate._"

And I am gone before you can blink again, left to wander the edges of my own map and wonder how many oceans away you really are, how many times I would have to fly around the world to feel you warm against me.

My lips still hold your kiss, but it tastes like _no _and wrongness.

But I don't know how not to watch you; so I do, keeping my maps tucked beneath the globe of my heart, wondering where in the world it would be okay for me to love you.

Wondering where in the world you would not be scared to love me back.

(Wondering if you ever could.)


	39. Year - RowenaHelga

**A/N:** For the Femmeslash Challenge, because I don't think I've written enough lately.

Sidenote though: how the fuck do you write Founders? Sorry for this attempt at being Founders-y, guys. I tried, I really did.

* * *

**Pairing:** Rowena Ravenclaw/Helga Hufflepuff

**Prompt:** 3. Year

* * *

You tell me it's only a year, just a year between when I will see you last and when I might see you again, and I am selfish. I tell you not to go.

You were always the fair one, dear Helga, always sweet and gentle, and when I tell you not to do what you have been waiting all these years for, you shock me. You laugh and it borders on cruel. You fold your arms across your chest, raise an eyebrow questioningly.

"You would stop me, Rowena?"

"I would try."

And I would; I would give you everything to stop our little infinity from reaching its end too soon. I say this, and you laugh once more.

"Some infinites are larger than other infinities," you whisper. "You will have your memories still."

"Am I wrong to want more for us, Helga? Am I wrong to want forever?"

"Surely you of all people know that there is no forever, Rowena? There is today and tomorrow, if you are fortunate. Asking for more is like asking the sun to fall from the sky."

Your hands reach for mine; even now you cannot resist the urge to comfort, to console.

"There is a forever in memory. You cannot tell me that the greatness we know from the past is not still alive, will not continue to live, to go on forever?"

"Then you shall have our memories to warm you when I take my leave."

"You don't have to leave me behind. We could have more. We could make more memories together, I swear it."

I revel in the warmth of your touch. Your blue eyes are wide and careful as you speak.

"You would come? You may not find your future there, Rowena."

"Future? You promised me a year!"

"A year before I make my final decision."

There is silence as I imagine a year without you.

"Take me with you."

And you kiss me then. The heat of your body next to mine assures me I am making the right decision, assures me that I could never let you go, let you leave me. You hold me against you and whisper, "Of course," and I feel as if you have promised me the forever we never deemed possible.

And from her, we will travel to Scotland together and meet your friends. We will start that school, the one you have so dreamt of for so long.

We will cement ourselves a place in the future, Helga. They will remember us forever.

But long before that, we'll have our own forever nestled between our ears, a _happy-ever-after_ trapped in the space between my lips and yours, and I will never regret following you here.


	40. Celebrate - PercyKingsley

**A/N:** I swear to Merlin, I think I've lost it. For Amber, because she is a shameless hussy who requests the oddest things. Warning for enough sexiness to make me slightly uncomfortable. *tugs at collar*

* * *

**Pairing:** Kingsley Shacklebolt/Percy Weasley

**Prompt:** 30. Celebrate

* * *

"Congratulations, Minister," he says softly, and he looks the height of professionalism, all grey, sweeping robes and not a hair out of place, but you can see the rise of a blush on his cheeks, the way his lips lie parted as he breathes softly, anticipating.

"Thank you, Weasley," you drawl, your low voice dropping even lower, so that it swoops to the pit of his stomach, makes his spine tingle, just the way he likes it; you see his lips quirk into a half-smile, his ears almost glowing bright red. "Do you like my office?"

"It's wonderful, Minister," he murmurs. His voice catches on your new title and you revel in the thrill of it, of having him below you, of this power you have. "What a n – nice desk."

You quirk your eyebrow towards the sturdy desk in the centre of the room, before looking back to where Percy stands, flustered and nervous and beautiful. "Yes," you say softy. "It would be a shame if something were to…happen to it…"

"Minister?" he asks, quirking his head innocently, as if he doesn't know that you will have him bent over that desk in mere moments, as if he isn't waiting to relish in the cool wood against his hot skin, as if it was not his idea to celebrate your victory by writhing like animals in this, the Holy Grail, _the Minister for Magic's Office. _

"Weasley, please ensure that the door is locked behind you," you say formally, standing up as straight as you can with your shoulders rolled back. This is your 'official' voice, and you know he fucking loves it. He never was one for denouncing authority.

"Yes, Minister," he says breathily, and you turn to the desk, clearing it with a flick of your wand. You run your hand along the polished surface, clear and clean, and smile.

"When you're ready, Mister Weasley, I want you to brace yourself on that desk, hands flat, and wait. Do you understand?"

"Wait for what, Minister?" he asks, but even as he does he is walking towards the desk, resting his hands on the smooth wood. You can see the mark his sweaty palms have left on its surface already and you chuckle.

"If your Minister tells you to wait, Weasley," you whisper, walking slowly around so that you stand behind him, so that your mouth finds the curve of his ear, "then you fucking wait. Do I make myself clear?"

You lean closer to him, pressing your lips against his neck, kissing the soft skin of his jaw as he trembles beneath your touch.

"Y – yes."

"Yes, _who_?" you growl, nipping sharply at his earlobe. He yelps, pants, _moans_ around the word: _"Minister. _Yes; _yes, Minister_."

"That's right," you mutter, hearing the huskiness of your own voice as your fingers tiptoe along his spine. "Now, I think it's high time, we got these celebrations underway, don't you, Weasley?"

"Oh, Merlin, yes," he sighs, and you chuckle as you tug his robes over his shoulders roughly, baring his pale back. He lets you slip them off over his head before his hands are back on that desk and you are behind him again, worshipping every inch of him you can reach; his back, his neck, his sides, his thighs; until you have him bent over your desk, knuckles white as he clutches the edges and screams for his Minister.

You wonder if they'll ever get this desk clean again. Somehow, you doubt it.


	41. Endearing - LunaLavender

**A/N:** For the Femmeslash Challenge, because the world needs more lady love.

Dedicated to Rish, because she put this pairing in my head and it won't get out omg.

* * *

**Pairing:** Lavender Brown/Luna Lovegood

**Prompt: **22. Endearing

* * *

There is a girl who collects clocks. She is scarred and scared and she stacks them up around her home in wavering towers, a castle of ticking hands. She knows that you can never have enough time.

They do not tick in sync. They are a melodious cacophony of life. Each tick and tock strikes her in the chest, and sometimes she swirls her fingers through the dust on clock faces and calls her reflection beautiful. She stares at the flashes of scarred skin that catch on the swirl's edge and promises to try and believe that the silver slashes and red raw gashes are rather endearing.

It is all she has left.

* * *

There is a girl who chases fantasies. She looks for creatures that don't exist through always-believing eyes and, sometimes, she thinks she knows everything, if only someone would listen.

She hears the ticktickticks and follows monsters she's seen too many times before into the darkest of places and finds a girl, one who is scarred and scared, caught in the unwieldy hands of time, trapped between numbers that seem to end _rightnowthissecond_ and somehow go on _forever_.

She looks in the darkness for faeries and elves, or perhaps creatures much darker, or spirits much brighter, but the girl with the clocks says, "You're looking in the wrong place."

She wanted to find monsters and fairytales. Instead, she stumbles across a girl in a clock tower who's afraid to breathe too slowly in case the second hand overtakes her heartbeat.

She finds this and nothing more.

* * *

There is a girl who collects clocks, and sometimes she smashes the biggest ones, picks them up in both hands and throws them to the ground and dances on their faces until the hands are twisted and the glass is shattered, sharp shards embedded in the soles of her shoes.

She knows you can never have enough time.

So she kisses the girl who searches for wisps of imagination, says, "_You're looking in the wrong place, you're looking the wrong place_," over and over and over until the girl blinks and decides the only monsters she wants to chase are the one hiding in the clock girl's chest. Because they will never have enough time.

And then, "I don't like the dust," she says quietly, so they spend the night polishing clocks that don't tick and dancing on the ones that do. When they are done, the can see their reflections in shining clocks and shattered glass, and there are no scars that have ever been anything less than beautifully tragic and tragically beautiful, especially not reflected back in smashed and shining glory.

The monsters do not find them, and they revel in the silence between ticks and heartbeats, pressed perhaps too close to each other and pretending the hands of time are fingers they cannot let go of.

And through the night, they breathe in sync, ticking on and on and on.


	42. Diagon Alley - NevilleDraco

**A/N:** For Kelly. You wouldn't shut up about these two and then neither would my brain. I'm not even entirely sure this makes sense. Shut up and love me.

Two prompts left, guys._ Two. *_flails*

* * *

**Pairing:** Neville Longbottom/Draco Malfoy

**Prompt:** 17. Diagon Alley

* * *

Sometimes they meet in Diagon Alley and part with a gentle nod and a murmured hello. Sometimes Neville feels sorry for Draco, with his shadowed eyes and that lost look he has. Sometimes he asks him for a drink, or for lunch.

Sometimes they end up pissed as newts and Draco finds his way into Neville's open mouth and they are all shaking, sweaty palms on skin and rushed breaths behind crooked, crumbing pubs with too many windows.

Sometimes they pretend it isn't happening.

* * *

Sometimes Neville says, "I'm sorry about your aunt," but he doesn't mean it, and Draco doesn't mind at all.

"I'm sorry, too," he says, and he watches Neville's hand creep towards the newest gum wrapper in his pocket.

"I know." And they are quiet for a while.

* * *

Sometimes Draco is braver than he should be; like when he kisses Neville softly and they're not even _drunk,_ and he doesn't know what he's doing or why but it doesn't feel wrong and so he doesn't stop. But Neville doesn't stop him either so he supposes this is just what they do now.

He thinks he might be crying or Neville might be crying or maybe they both are.

He still does not stop.

* * *

Sometimes Draco has nightmares, thrashing wildly and crying out, and Neville is supposed to be the brave one so he grabs him, keeps him still, shushes his sobs until they are dead on his lips.

"Thank you," Draco whispers, but he means_ I'm sorry how can you love me I did terrible things and I don't deserve you I don't_ and Neville kisses him harshly, bites down on his lip, tears at his hair, bruises his sides with hands that sometimes grip a little too tightly.

Anything just to shut him up.

* * *

Sometimes, Neville stares at family photos for hours on end and cries, just a little. Draco is never sure what to do, so he just turns up the wireless and lights the fire and doesn't say anything for a long time.

"How can you lose something you've never really had?" Neville mutters. "I'm being silly. I'm always so stupid."

"No," Draco says, and it is all he has to say, because Neville understands the warm arms around him and the lean body pressed close are worth more than either of them can put into words.

* * *

Sometimes, when they've climbed the stairs, Draco begins to shake. He cannot stand by the window. He doesn't have it in him to look down at anyone anymore.

"He was still looking at me when he fell," he says quietly, and Neville pretends not to hear. It's easier this way.

* * *

Sometimes Neville has nightmares, thrashing wildly and crying out, and Draco soothes his hair and whispers _there there_ until Neville blinks his bright eyes awake and screams. He is hysterical, violent, scared. He is always so confused, always so desperate.

So Draco sleeps on the sofa and digs his fingernails into his own forearm until it bleeds. He wonders what he does in these nightmares, wonders if it even matters. He was there. That's enough.

He doesn't sleep on these nights, and he doesn't think Neville does either.

* * *

Sometimes Neville wakes up with Draco Malfoy in his bed and cries.

He prays that the heavens can hear him, that Dumbledore and Remus and Gran and everyone else doesn't think he is a traitor. He hopes they understand. He hopes they know that he never wanted this, never thought this would happen, still doesn't really know what he's doing when Draco's body is warm and lean against his in the middle of the night.

_What do you do when you love the wrong person? _he wonders, but the answer never comes._  
_  
The morning light spills across their naked chests gently and neither of them moves.


	43. Fortuitous - DracoHarry

**A/N:** This is for Rish, because she is my new wifey and she is lovely and she loves Drarry. I don't even know where this came from. Enjoy!

The line _"You have to get burnt to know that you're here."_ is paraphrased from Andrea Gibson's poem _Wasabi_.

**Pairing:** Draco/Harry

**Prompt:** 43. Fortuitous (used in the "unexpected" sense because how the shit else can i use this prompt?)

* * *

He always gets caught in the rain.

* * *

His mother's hands are long and elegant, pale as the moon, shaky as a dark, stormy sky, and gentle as the glow of the stars, and he loves her, he does.

"We didn't mean to lose the war," she says sometimes, threading her fingers through his blond hair. "But we didn't mean to win either."

Her hands swirl like hurricanes on his scalp.

* * *

Harry Potter is a tornado. He doesn't mean to be, but he is.

He's all justice and mercy and vengeance and power that isn't supposed to be, an accident of nature, unforeseen circumstances that have come together to make this - this little boy with green eyes and no family, this tornado with all that passion and no hope.

Draco watches him. The stormclouds in his chest. The lightning behind his glasses. The thunder of his heartbeat.

He waits for it to end, for the inevitable natural disaster.

It never comes.

* * *

His mother's lips are soft and sweet, pink as a summer evening's sky, gentle as the drifting clouds. She presses them to his forehead and he feels the sun on his skin.

He wonders if he'll burn.

"Sometimes," she says. "You have to get burnt to know that you're here."

Her lips are like sunshine, rays of wisdom and truth that light up Draco's world, and he wonders how he ever heard his father's snowstorm, ice winds and flash frozen futures, over anything this right.

* * *

Harry Potter is a raincloud, heavy with the weight of death and destruction and one old man with a twisted heart and eyes red as blood, as bravery.

(And Draco always gets caught in the rain.)

* * *

His mother's eyes are like rain on dull pavements, like grey sheets of sleet, like sunshine beating off warm metal, like snow that's been stepped on by the dirtiest boots, and he loves her. He does.

She says, "Harry Potter's going to ruin you," but she says it with a smile, like /ruin/ means /fix/ and the only thing Potter could ever ruin is the monster Draco could've become and she looks at him with so much soul and so much sun and so much sorrow, and his heartbeat quickens.

He thinks she might throw him out in the rain, but she doesn't. She says goodnight and lets the silence ring through the Manor and he knows that she knows that he'll end up soaked to the bone anyway.

It's what he does.

* * *

Harry Potter is the be all and end all, the tsunami of nothing and the forest fire of everything, and Draco gets lost in the calm of him, the chaos of him, the heart of him.

"I don't think it was supposed to go like this," Harry says, but he's still holding tight to Draco's wrist, still raining hard on Draco's heart.

"My mother says nothing ever does." And he kisses him and bites him and wants to swallow him whole so his heart beats with the storm of Harry's love but he can't so he just swallows all the /I love you/s and tells himself that's enough.

* * *

"I think she knew," Draco says, placing lilies on his mother's grave, the marble grey as rainy days, warm as sunsets

"How?"

The clouds are grey and bland and heavy, ready to crack and burst and _rain_, for moments or minutes or months, who knows? And the drops hit Draco's skin softly, roll down his face like the tears he doesn't let himself cry, not anymore. "I don't know. She said things sometimes. About you."

Harry reaches for him, breathes soft against Draco's throat, desert breeze and winter winds all at once. "About me? Why?"

Above them, white clouds roll to grey, and thunder rumbles. There's a storm coming, but Draco thinks he's already right at the heart of it. He laces his fingers through Harry's, doesn't speak, and thinks of lightning, of this storm that is raging, that will never, ever stop.

Yes, right at the heart of it. Always has been.


End file.
